A Search for Solace
by FlamingRose11
Summary: In the midst of war, no family, no matter their power or wealth, is safe. The Starks, a prominent family of the gilded age, is no exception. With word of Lysa's tragedy across the Atlantic, they see the trials that could soon befall them. Therefore they return to Winterfell any time they feel loss or lost. World War I AU. Definitely some Jonsa. This will be a lengthy fic for sure.
1. Chapter 1

October 15th, 1916

The Starks were spending Christmas in their Newport estate, Winterfell. Eddard Stark insisted at the time of its construction that the summer home have a dreary title, so in retaliation Catelyn vowed they would spend at least one winter in Winterfell. She was keeping her promise, insisting this year, 1916, was the year for it.

"Catelyn, we'd have to pay the staff, and they'd all have to come into work in the off season."

"They'll be happy with the extra income."

"But what about Christmas with their families?"

"They can all spend it at the estate."

"And their children?"

"They are welcome, too." She stated stubbornly, crossing her arms across her chest.

"Catelyn," Ned Sighed, "There are expectations, as you are always reminding me, of how we are to behave as a family of high society."

"Oh please. No one will be there but the family. We can swear them to secrecy. Really, who would know?"

"The expense Catelyn," Ned reminded her.

"Eddard Stark, you did not spend so many hours at the mill and at the office over the years so that you could earn money for the Greyjoys to hide away in their bank. Let us have a bit of frivolity from time to time." Ned sighed knowing no matter what he said, his wife would win the battle.

"Ned please," she implored him, "if any year is appropriate for such an endeavor, it is this year." He took her gently by the shoulders, running his hands up and down her arms. The way she looked at him, her blue eyes pleading, he knew he could deny her nothing.

"Alright my dear," he replied, "we will spend Christmas at Winterfell." An elated smile broke over her face.

"Oh, Ned! Thank you!" she kissed him eagerly and gratefully. She was always so genuine in her thanks that it was no wonder to Ned that he always bent to her every whim. It was a good thing she was practical by nature and modest in her requests. If she asked Ned to bring her the sun, he would spend all his time, effort, and capital finding a way to bring it down to Earth.

"I really should have let you name it whatever you wished instead of insisting on being clever. Then I wouldn't be in this mess."

"I promise you, it won't be a mess," she replied, "it will be wonderful."

"We still have to go to the Lannister's winter Ball. Cersei would not be happy with you if you snubbed her."

"Of course. But the very next day we must go, dear husband."

"As you wish, dear wife," he said with a kiss to her forehead. He watched as she left his study to go to her chambers. He suspected she would waste no time in writing the appropriate letters and making the necessary arrangements. He was happy and a bit relieved to see his wife smile again. The war that had been waging in the rest of the world had taken a toll on her. Her sister, Lysa, had married a man of the Royal British Navy and moved to London despite her family's concern. The war was declared, and he was off to fight. In May, word reached Catelyn that he had been killed. Now Lysa was alone save for her son Robin, grieving the loss of her husband, struggling to survive, and having no family to comfort her. Catelyn took the loss badly, and Ned worried he'd not see a smile reach her eyes again. Today, he saw a glimmer of hope in her again, and he prayed that meant his wife would come back to him. It was a start. He sat down and resumed reading his book. He had a lot of work to get done before December, so he would enjoy what little time he had to read at home.

* * *

"Sansa! Sansa!" Arya came through the hall, her brown, unruly hair catching in the air as she ran.

"Arya, you really shouldn't be running through the halls that way," Sansa frowned, "Mother would not approve." She looked back to her embroidery. The vine of ivy was coming along nicely.

"Then we just won't tell her, will we,' Arya flippantly declared. Sansa shook her head in disapproval and attempted to hide her amusement.  
"You'll have to start behaving like a lady eventually,' Sansa said.

"Eventually,' Aryan pointed out, "not today." Sansa sighed in resignation.

'What is it you came to tell me?"

'Mother says we are spending Christmas in Winterfell,' she replied excitedly, "can you believe it? Winterfell! Isn't it wonderful?!"

'But we only go there in the summer," she said perplexed, "what about winter? The snow, the wind off the sea?"

"We have fireplaces in our rooms. We will be fine. Besides, can you imagine the snow? Oh my goodness the snow!" Arya had a faraway look like she was already there, running across the grounds of Winterfell.

"The only unfortunate part is we still have to go to the Lannisters for their winter ball." She spat the words like they were poison. Sansa focused intently on her embroidery again. She wouldn't meet Arya's eyes.

"We must keep up appearances," Sansa said evenly.

"How can you stand it Sansa?" Arya asked, "knowing what he is, what he did to you?"

"Keep your voice down," Sansa warned. Arya looked about her. She knew her mother was in her room and father in his study on the first floor, but she took the precaution anyways for Sansa's sake. Since late June, Arya had tried to be more considerate and kinder to her sister.

It was the first party of the summer season. Everyone was there at the lavish summer home of the Lannisters. Glittering gowns, rich food made by the finest New York chefs brought up to Newport for the occasion. They'd hired acrobats to perform on the grounds. They had music and dancing and fireworks. It was an evening of absolute splendor in the typical Lannister fashion. Before the fireworks began, Joffrey Baratheon invited Sansa to see the display from the gardens. He assured her it was a superior view compared to that of the balcony.

Joffrey was the son of Robert and Cersei Baratheon. When Robert died, he left his coal empire to Joffrey and Cersei as he had no living family left aside from his children. Cersei was a Lannister by birth, and in her grief she returned to her family home taking the place of the Lannister matriarch. Cersei doted on Joffrey, spoiled him as their father would say. Arya didn't like him, but Sansa found him charming. It was rumored Joffrey was planning on courting Sansa, and a bond between such prominent families was an appealing arrangement. Sansa knew the benefits, plus he was handsome and always smiled at her in such a way that it made her heart flutter. In order to appease him that night, Sansa accepted his invitation. Arya spotted them as Joffrey attempted to whisk Sansa away. She tugged on her older brother Robb's sleeve. He and Jon, her cousin, turned to her as she described what she saw. She was insistent that they should follow. Something about Joffrey made Arya wary, and it sent warning signals off in her head when she saw her sister disappear with him alone into the gardens hidden by the marigolds and lion topiaries. She found Sansa pushed against a column, the sleeve of her dress off her shoulder, her skirt torn, and her face stained by tears her frightened eyes had shed. Joffrey was the culprit, that was clear, especially since he was the one keeping her from escaping, his hands on her like vice grips.

"Sansa," Arya cried. Joffrey turned to be faced with three angry Starks. Arya ran to her sister, shoving past Joffrey. Joffrey tried to grasp at her as the fireworks began only to be stopped by Robb and Jon They stood menacing between the Stark girls and the Baratheon boy. Arya had never seen Jon or Robb so terrifying, the fireworks lighting their faces from time to time, accentuating their sharp features. Robb swung his fist in a mighty arc and made contact with Joffrey's mouth.

"Don't ever touch my sister again," Robb growled, "I will not restrict myself to one hit next time if I even suspect you've laid a hand on either of them."

"How dare you?" Joffrey spat, wiping blood from his mouth, "my mother will hear about this. Everyone will hear about this. They'll all know you're a brute."

"Me? A brute? Oh no, of course not! As far as I know you fell. Didn't you see him fall, Jon?"

"He definitely fell, Robb," Jon replied, 'Quite the fall, too. He split his lip and everything."

"Come on Joffrey," Robb said putting his arm around his shoulder, "let's get you cleaned up." Jon and Robb took Joffrey back to the house. Sansa stayed in the gardens, attempting to collect herself. Arya went to find Myrcella to ask her for her help. Myrcella was tall for her age, so she was able to lend Sansa a dress. When Myrcella and Arya reached Sansa in the gardens, she had collected herself and carried herself as if nothing had happened, as if her dress was meant to be in tatters and her hair disheveled. She calmly followed Myrcella to her room, and there Arya and Myrcella helped her change into another dress.

"If anyone asks, just tell them I spilled punch on my dress," Sansa had said, "I don't want anyone to know what happened tonight." She fixed her eyes on Arya before adding, "not even mother and father." Arya watched Sansa as she told Robb and Jon the same thing. Robb tried to argue with her, going on and on about it being a matter of honor.

"Any man who tries to strip a woman of her dignity has no honor, and no man such as that can ever take from me what he could not recognize if it was in front of his nose. I maintain my honor, and Joffrey has none, therefore it is not a matter of honor." Robb could not argue her point, and was flustered that such words had left his sister's lips. He begrudgingly agreed to keep the secret. All Sansa had to do was meet Jon's eyes. He gazed at her for a moment, something glimmering there. Arya couldn't tell if it was understanding, pride, or worry. It might have been all three.

"As you wish," he'd said. He did not say another word.

Arya had kept her promise. She hadn't told a soul. For that reason, they all still went to the Lannister's parties and dinners and outings putting on a brave and polite face for all to see. Arya hated it. The pretending was much too exhausting for her taste. She watched her sister focus on her embroidery. She tried to be careful with her next question.

"Why won't you tell Mother and Father, Sansa?"

"The Lannisters run the Pacific railroad lines. When Mister Baratheon died, he left the coal industry to Joffrey. Joffrey is merely a puppet of his mother's side of the family. He is the key to the coal their engines need. They are a powerful force here. Father supplies them with steel so they can expand their lines. If we told Father and Mother what Joffrey did, he would cut ties with the Lannisters off of principal. He can't afford to lose their business. We would all suffer greatly, but Father will suffer most. He'll consider himself at fault. So we can't tell Father and Mother."

"Fine," Arya said with a slump in her shoulders. Sansa smiled encouragingly.

"It won't be so bad," she said, "just a few formalities and then we will all be at Winterfell for Christmas." Arya returned the smile. Thoughts of Winterfell stayed with her throughout the day.

Sansa continued her embroidery. She tried not to think too much of the Lannister ball. If she was going to steel herself for December, she would start mentally preparing now. As she lay down to sleep that night, she prayed she wouldn't have the nightmares she got the nights before Lannister parties. The dreams where Arya, Robb, and Jon didn't show up in the gardens and she was trapped and alone with him there, his hot breath on her neck and his sardonic laughter ringing in her ears. She fell asleep afraid.

* * *

"Winterfell?" Jon asked, perplexed, "In winter?"

"Your aunt Catelyn's idea. After the Lannister's ball, of course. We must keep up appearances," Benjen drawled without looking up from the morning paper. Jon did not expect to be invited to the Lannisters' parties, but every season he was surprised to see his name on an invitation. It had been eight years since he entered the world of elite still wasn't used to it.

His father had been Benjen Stark's clerk, his most trusted clerk, and though the depravity of Jon's father's social status dictated that he could not have such a wealthy and socially important friend, he did. Benjen Stark never adhered to the rules of society, and he used his privilege of being a man of great wealth to do what he felt was right instead of what was expected. It was a trait that ran through all Starks, Jon had discovered. Benjen had celebrated when his friend Rhegar married Jon's mother, Lyanna. Rhegar and Lyanna Snow asked Benjen to be Jon's godfather. Benjen gladly accepted. Jon never knew his mother. Lyanna died in childbirth, and Benjen had grieved her death as if she was his own flesh and blood.

Benjen made sure Rhegar and his boy were taken care of. Jon and his father never went cold or hungry, Benjen made sure of it. Every Christmas, Jon and his father were invited to Christmas at the Stark's house despite being in a lower social class. There were many whispers, but Benjen never backed down from what he called his duty. The way he saw it, Rhegar, in all his inferiority, had been a better class of man, a more loyal friend, and all around more decent human being than those in Benjen's circle who claimed the title friend based on their tax bracket. So every Christmas, without fail, Jon and Rhegar were welcomed warmly into the Stark home. Then, when Jon was nine, soon to be ten, his father was trampled by a carriage of startled horses. As his godfather and guardian, Benjen Stark took Jon into his home. That Thanksgiving he asked Jon if he could ever consider him a father. Jon told him he already thought of Benjen as a father. That Christmas, Jon Snow became Jon Stark.

Benjen made sure Jon got the finest education, and when Jon was eleven, he and robb were sent to the same boarding school where they became closer friends than they were before. They were practically brothers. His first summer in elite society was quite the culture shock. Boarding school was a daunting transition, but goodness: learning how to dance, how to talk to those in the high society, what utensil was used for which food…all of it was so overwhelming. He figured out most of the etiquette and he learned to dance, though he avoided it when he could. Still, he was uncomfortable in the crowds of people bred with money. Any time he entered conversation, he was acutely aware of how much he did not belong. He was only comfortable around the Starks. The Starks felt like home.

"You'll like Winterfell in December," Benjen said, "it's gorgeous when covered in snow." Jon nodded. They were silent for a moment.

"I don't much like the Lannisters in December," Jon said carefully. Benjen took a sip of his coffee before looking at Jon over his paper.

"Only December?" he asked with a glint in his eye, "I am impressed. You are a better man than I my son. I don't like the Lannisters at any time of the year." Jon shared a smile with his godfather and swelled with pride like he did any time Benjen called him son. He was so grateful. Even with both parents gone, he wasn't an orphan. Jon was lucky.

"Your train leaves at noon. Are you ready?"

"Yes sir," Jon replied, "I've packed."

"Then we'd better get going." He folded his paper and stood from the table. Jon took the flowers the cook had gotten at market that morning. He and Benjen put on their coats and walked outside towards the church yard.

They spent the walk in silence. They walked through the gate of the cemetery down the rows of tombstones until they were in front of the two matching stones of Jon's parents. He placed the flowers in the small space between their graves making sure the flowers touched both of their plots. Jon liked to think of it as a bridge, a link by which his parents could still be connected.

"happy anniversary," he whispered as he placed a hand on both headstones, "I love you both." As he stood he felt his godfather's hand on his shoulder.

"They'd be proud of you, the man you are becoming." Jon swallowed the lump in his throatand tried to nod. He could only manage to stand still. They stood at the grave for a while, both men absorbed in their thoughts. They made their way back to the house in the same silence as when they walked to the cemetery. When they arrived, Jon's things were in a carriage bound for the train station.

"I'll see you in December,' Benjen said as he hugged him goodbye. Jon nodded. He got into the carriage and watched his godfather disappear as the carriage turned the corner. It was only then he allowed himself the tears that had been building. Eight years. Seventeen for his mother. He still missed them as much as before.


	2. Chapter 2

December 23rd, 1916

Mother, please," Robb complained, "I can tie my own neck tie."

"Nonsense," Catelyn replied as she went for her son's collar again, "you are my son, and I rarely get the chance to inspect your wardrobe with you off at school."

"You'll have plenty of time for that when I finish school."

"we never known how much time we get, my dear," Catelyn sadly replied. Robb gave her hand a squeeze. She was thinking of his Aunt Lysa.

"Then by all means, dress me how you like," Robb said dramatically throwing his head back and his arms out. Catelyn chuckled softly at his antics, and Robb smiled triumphantly.

"There we go," Catelyn said straightening his tie, "now we much round up your siblings." Catelyn went in search of her other children. Robb went in search of his father. Ned Stark was in his study attempting to get some reading in before the party.

"Father Are you ready?" Robb asked him from the doorway of the study. Ned let go of a deep sigh.

"As ready as I will ever be," he replied. Robb smiled. His father hated high society functions like this. Parading his wealth was not something he was accustomed to. He did the bare minimum so as to keep relations good and whispered rumors at bay. He would be more than happy to be locked in a library with minimal provisions instead of attending a Lannister party overflowing with all the finest foods a person could possibly desire. Ned put the book on the desk and made his way towards the front door.

"Catelyn!" he called, "Arya, Sansa, Bran! It's time to go!"

"Nan has put Rickon to bed. Hopefully he stays there," Catelyn said as she came out into the foyer in a navy blue gown. She wore Sapphires and diamonds in her hair and around her neck. Ned couldn't tear his gaze away from her. He bowed as he kissed her hand, never letting his eyes stray from her.

"Stunning," he said. Catelyn smiled warmly. Robb couldn't help but smile as he witnessed the exchange.

'I still don't understand why appearances are so important to maintain," Arya complained. She was dressed in bold green, definitely at their mother's insistence she wear something colorful, Robb was sure of it. A black sash went around her waist. He guessed that had been Arya's addition to the dress. She didn't like standing out. She would find that to be difficult tonight in that dress. She was beautiful. He sighed. He already had one sister to worry about with Sansa. He really hoped he wouldn't have to worry too much about Arya.

"We want to stay on the good side of the Lannisters, Arya," Catelyn said for what Robb was sure was the millionth time since October. Bran came down the steps escorting his eldest sister. They looked a somber pair, Bran with his far off gaze contemplating the ills of the universe, and Sansa mentally preparing for battle. Her armor for the evening was in the form of a grey gown that shimmered in the dim light coming from the sconces on the wall. _She is beautiful_ , Robb thought sadly. He would worry a lot tonight until she was safely home away from the hungry eyes of Joffrey Baratheon.

"lovely," Catelyn said, "both of you. I have such beautiful children." She smoothed Arya's hair, admiring her. She took a look at each of her children ending with Robb.

"They take after their mother," Ned answered, "Now let's go. Jon and Uncle Benjen are waiting for us outside."

"Jon?" Arya perked up.

"Yes, Jon," Ned replied, "now aren't you happy we are going to the Lannister Winter Ball?"

'I wouldn't say that," she stubbornly stated, "but Jon makes it better." Robb smiled. He agreed with Arya. Jon did make it better. He'd have an ally in Jon, and Jon would join him in the efforts of keeping Joffrey away from his sisters.

* * *

Sansa looked at the decorations, the gold ornaments and sparkling garlands spiraling up the columns of the house. She took a deep breath. She could endure this night. She was a Stark. Starks endured.

"Are you alright?" Robb asked her. She smiled tightly as she took her brother's arm.

"Of course," she replied as they followed their parents into the Lannister house, Arya and bran following behind. She hoped she looked more convincing than she felt.

There were evergreen wreaths and trees everywhere. Holly was adorning every archway. Lights glistened and tinsel dripped like icicles. Porcelain angels and ice sculptures adorned the tables that held foods of every kind on its surfaces of only the best quality. There was a ballroom full of dancing couples as the band played song after song. There was a time when Sansa wished every night held wonders such as these, but now she wanted to be home far away from the Lannister house. Even with all the blindingly bright baubles that surrounded her, she did not want to be in the lavish house. It wasn't home.

She found a place on the wall near the door, just in case she needed to escape. She tried her best to blend into the crowd. She didn't want to draw his attention, l but when she saw him coming towards her, she knew she'd failed in that effort. Dread filled her up the closer Joffrey came to standing in front of her. The closer he got, the more eyes in the room looked in her direction. He would enjoy asking her to dance in front of the room full of people, and she would have to accept to keep up appearances, and he would say cruel things with a smile and she'd have to bear it though all she would want to do is die right there. And he would enjoy it, all of it from his cruel taunts to the way he held her waist just a tad too tight. She was frozen in place. She wanted to move, but she'd forgotten how. She wanted to faint, anything to avoid him.

"Sansa, dear cousin," she heard Jon say hurriedly. In her fright she hadn't noticed he'd made his way to her side.

"May I have this dance?" he asked as he bowed and held out his hand.

"You may," she said with great relief taking his hand.

Jon did not like dancing. He usually stood uncomfortably in the room and stumbled through conversation until it was time to leave, but when he saw Joffrey walking towards Sansa, he knew he had to interfere. Robb tensed next to him, and Sansa looked rooted to the spot. He had to act. Before he knew what his body was doing, he was leading her onto the dance floor, her hand in his, her hand on her waist.

"You dance," Sansa said, hoping to break the tension.

"Not if I can help it, no," Jon replied stiffly focusing on the tempo and hoping to God he didn't miss a step.

"So you couldn't help it?" she asked amused. She was teasing him. It was strange. He wasn't as close to Sansa as the other Starks, and she'd never been so easy with him as she was now. He felt like it was an important moment and he should be paying special attention to every detail of the time they spent dancing in the Lannister house.

"You seemed…in distress," he cringed at his choice of words. Sansa smiled for the first time that evening. He was happy to be the cause. Since June, he didn't see her smile nearly as much as he wished. She used to give people smiles frequently. That all changed over the summer. He couldn't blame her for it, but he was glad to see a smile this evening.

"My knight in shining armor," she laughed with a sparkle in her eye. He chuckled.

"I don't know about shining armor. It would be covered in dirt and soot if I was in charge of keeping it. I'm dreadful at keeping things clean."

"You certainly cleaned up nicely tonight,' she answered, "perhaps it's a talent you had no idea you had." Jon tried not to think too much of the blush that was threatening to spread along hi cheeks.

"Perhaps," he said in a low voice, "I have the secret powers of cleanliness and perfect timing." He looked at her like he was telling her a secret and she couldn't help but giggle a bit. It surprised her, but it was a pleasant surprise.

"Thank you," she said, "truly, Jon. I was in distress as you put it. Thank you for coming to my aid."

"Of course," Jon replied. He looked about the room. People were watching them intently, some were whispering. He hoped the drama they were telling didn't reflect badly on Sansa. He didn't care much for his reputation, but her he wanted to maintain. He wasn't born into this life; she was.

"You may want to stick close to Arya or Robb after this dance. It would be improper for us to dance two dances in a row. There are fewer male partners. It would be considered rude." He added to answer her look of confusion. She didn't completely buy his story. Jon had never been concerned with partner rations in the past. She could not remember a time he went out of his way to even out the numbers on the dance floor. Then again, she could not remember a time she felt so at ease and happy with Jon as the culprit. Perhaps it was an evening of firsts for both of them.

"It's quite a shame. I enjoy dancing with you." She was surprised to find she meant what she said. Jon was a decent dancer, and she felt safe with him.

"And I you," Jon replied, surprised to find his words true. She was a patient partner, and he had accomplished making her smile and laugh in one dance. He felt more confident with every step they took.

"You do?" she teased, "the man who avoids dancing like the plague?"

"Dancing with the most beautiful girl in the room is a privilege. Even fools like me know that." He didn't mean to say that, but he had. He said it in earnest, too, and now it was there floating in the air they were sharing, waiting to be inhaled by one or both of them. He felt the blood creep up to his face.

"I'm beautiful?" Sansa asked quietly. She almost missed a step.

"Stunning," Jon replied looking at her intently. He marveled at his boldness. He was grateful when the dance ended, but also disappointed. Grateful because the things he was telling Sansa were things he should keep to himself. Disappointed because he'd finally found dancing enjoyable, and the end of the dance meant relinquishing his preferred partner who made dancing so enjoyable. As the music came to an end he escorted her off the dance floor.

"Thank you for the privilege," Jon said as he bowed and kissed her hand. She dipped her head in acknowledgement.

"Hopefully we will dance again," she replied.

'Hopefully," he repeated with a smile. No sooner had Jon disappeared into the crowd than her friend Margery Tyrell and Myrcella rushed to her side.

"Your cousin, Jon, danced!" Margery exclaimed, "He never dances!"

"He does," Sansa retorted, "just not often."

"And he's so handsome," Myrcella sighed.

"He is," Sansa agreed quietly,

"He's dancing with Arya, now. Oh, your cousin must have powers if he was able to get your sister to dance," Margery teased.

"Cleanliness and perfect timing," she said with a small laugh.

"What?" Margery asked her, perplexed.

"Never mind," Sansa said, composing herself.

"Oh, if only I had the privilege of dancing with him," Myrcella gushed.

Myrcella's wish came true that night. She was practically speechless when he asked her to dance. Sansa understood it was his way of making sure he kept up appearances. He danced with a few of the other girls that night including Margery, thought he looked practically miserable and a little frightened at times in the evening, especially when he thought he might forget the steps. Sansa felt such gratitude towards him. He went so out of his way to help her. She hadn't given Jon enough credit. He was truly a gentleman.

She made sure to stay with Arya throughout the party, and she saw how Robb always made sure to be able to see Joffrey as the night went on. Between Robb, Arya, and Jon, Sansa was safe and protected with no chance of ambush. She did not need their protection, but she was grateful that they came to assist her.

It was soon time for all of them to leave. They each thanked their hosts graciously and made their ways home. In the morning they'd be off to Winterfell. After leaving Ned and his family, Benjen and Jon continued home.

"I saw what you did for your cousin tonight," Benjen said to Jon, "that was very gallant of you."

"it was the right thing to do, sir," he stammered, "you and father always taught me to do the right thing." Benjen let go of a small smile.

"You are a good man, Jon. Plus, your dancing wasn't bad either." Jon smiled.

"I had a good partner," he replied.


	3. Chapter 3

**Hello lovely readers! I am so glad to be back in town able to write more for you! I like to update my stories weekly, but I missed last week due to a hectic impromptu road trip, but I am back to stay, and just in time for the holidays. this story lines up rather well for the holidays, so that is quite wonderful and exciting.**

 **a few notes before this next installment of A Search for Solace: Winterfell in this story is fashioned after the summer mansions of the gilded age. Winterfell's interior is modeled after The Elms in Newport, RI. It's exterior is a bit more like Pemberly from Pride and Prejudice or even Winterfell from ASOIAF in the way that it is cohesive to the landscape and breathtaking in the winter time. I will put notes like these before certain chapters if there are historical notes or traditions, slag, etc. specific to the time era so you don't feel lost :) I may even try to post references on my tumblr, but no promises. that may be too much for me to handle with my current schedule. I hope you enjoy this next chapter!**

 **Much love,**

 **Flaming Rose**

December 24th, 1916 Christmas Eve

"Sansa! Sansa! Oh Sansa, wake up!" Arya was vigorously shaking her awake as the train slowed to a stop. It had lulled her asleep. She'd been dreaming of tinsel and glittering garlands and a knight in soot covered armor. Sansa looked out the window to be faced with blankets of glittering snow that sparkled in the late morning sun. They were here. Father was right. It was breath taking here in the winter. She couldn't wait to see what Winterfell looked like now.

"Isn't it incredible?" Arya gushed, never once looking away from the window.

"Yes," Sansa replied, also transfixed by the scenic winter landscape.

"This was a wonderful idea, Mother." Bran said, his far off look transformed into one full of admiration for the present landscape.

"Yes, absolutely wonderful!" Arya exclaimed as she nearly bounced out of her seat. Catelyn smiled, and Sansa thought her mother seemed to be happier away from the city; free. The trunks, Catelyn, and the children went towards the house with Ned, Robb, Benjen, and Jon close behind. Once they arrived at the house, Sansa nearly cried at how everything shined. _We should come here more often in the winter_ , she thought, _it's breathtaking in the winter_.

"Welcome back Missus Stark," The housekeeper, Septa Mordane, greeted, "Your rooms are ready upstairs."

"Thank you, Septa; we'll have tea in the upstairs parlor, and a cup of coffee for Mister Stark."

"Very well ma'am." They made their wat into the house and Arya wasted no time running through the downstairs parlor to the French doors that opened out into the grounds of Winterfell.

"Arya, please," Catelyn called behind her, "A girl of your age should not be running through the house like a wild thing."

"Fourteen is no fun," Arya muttered as she slowed down for a few seconds before running out even faster towards the large snow covered trees at the edge of the property. Catelyn sighed as she watched Arya and Rickon running through the snow.

"Where's Bran?" Catelyn asked Sansa as she looked about.

"He's probably in the library, selecting his preferred reading material for the day."

"That boy will soon be a walking encyclopedia," Catelyn commented as she went back into the house to see that everything had been prepared as she had instructed. Sansa said nothing. She stood still marveling at nature. Never had she seen something so beautiful.

* * *

Jon had been silent ever since arriving in Newport. The beautiful scene had robbed him of speech. It must have snowed overnight because the snow must have been untouched for it to glisten so. There was uninterrupted snow for miles. He couldn't wait till he saw Winterfell.

Jon knew the story of how it was called Winterfell—it amused Benjen so much that he told it to Jon every summer on the train ride to Winterfell. Uncle Ned and Aunt Catelyn had the home built. Ned was reluctant, but Catelyn insisted that it was expected of a family like theirs at the turn of the century. Catelyn wanted a fitting name for the summer home. After weeks of Ned rejecting name after name, Catelyn threw her hands up and told Ned that if he wanted to be so stubborn then he should name the summer home himself. Ned, being facetious and too clever for his own good, named the house Winterfell.

"Dear husband, if you insist on such a dreary name, then I insist on spending at least one winter at Winterfell, societal consequences be dammed! And you will have to deal with the wind off the coast and the snow that is bound to cover the lawn."

"As you wish, dear wife,' he'd said. Now it finally happened, and Benjen was more than tickled. He'd taken every opportunity he could on this trip to tease his brother.

"At least she is true to her word," he said with a laugh.

As they came up to the house, Jon was in awe. His Uncle Ned may have been playing a joke when he called his summer home Winterfell, but it was clear to Jon seeing it now that no other name could be more appropriate for the marvel in front of him. It was like nothing else he had ever seen.

"Welcome Mister Stark," Rodrik Cassell greeted Ned, "Missus Mordane has set out tea and coffee for the family in the upstairs parlor. I believe your wife is there now."

"Thank you Rodrick. We will make our way there now. Robb, Jon, round up my other children. I'm sure Arya and Rickon have wreaked havoc already."

"Yes Father," Robb replied, "come on, Jon." They walked into the house and followed the sound of laughter to the back terrace. The grandeur of the Stark summer home still hypnotized Jon. Tall, vaulting ceilings, massive tapestries, and paintings brought over from Italy, well-functioning electricity in every room! It was like something out of a dream, and he was living in it. It was almost too good to be true. Robb ran ahead calling out for Arya and Rickon. Jon peaked into the library and smiled to see Bran pouring over one of Ned Stark's many tomes. Bran had become ill when he was very young. Everyone was afraid that he wouldn't pull through, but somehow he did. However, the sickness had left its effect on him, and he wasn't always able to climb as much as he used to without getting winded or feeling aches in his legs. Bran was frustrated at first until Ned taught him how he could experience adventure through books. After that, Bran was rarely seen without one. He grew pensive as he grew older, and he was wise beyond his years. Benjen said it was because he nearly met death as a child, and that will always age a person. Jon thought it might also be in part to how many books he read and how much of their information Bran retained. If Bran kept at it, he'd know everything by the time he was Jon's age. At eighteen, Jon still felt like Bran knew more than him, even though he was five years younger than Jon. He made his way into the downstairs parlor. There with her back to him stood Sansa. Her red hair cut through the scene of whites, blues, and greys. She stood so still. If it weren't for the color of her hair she could be mistaken for one of the statues. Slowly, carefully, as if not to ruin the pretty picture before him, he approached his cousin.

'Sansa?" he said carefully. She turned and smiled when she saw him approaching.

'Hello, Jon," she greeted, "how are you?"

"I'm well. Wonderful, actually. Winterfell is beautiful in the winter."

"It is," she agreed, "I'm glad you and Uncle Benjen could join us here this year. I know it's a little different than what we usually do for Christmas."

"It was an excellent idea," he assured her, "your mother made an excellent decision."

"Thank you again for what you did last night."

"It was nothing," Jon said as he looked at his feet.

"no, it was important," Sansa insisted, "If Joffrey had asked me to dance…"

"You would have accepted to keep up appearances, and Robb would have beat him to a pulp."

"Yes," she said, relieved he was the one that vocalized the thought and not her. They stood quietly looking out at the grounds. Their silences were becoming less and less awkward, and for this they were both glad. Jon hoped this Christmas would be an opportunity to get to know Sansa, and for her to know him. He wanted her to know she could trust him, that she was safe with him.

"Jon!" Arya called as she ran towards him. The hem of her skirt was wet from the snow and her cheeks were flush from the cold and the exertion. Following close behind was Robb with Rickon sitting on his shoulders. Arya launched herself in his arms. He laughed as she tried spitting her hair out of her mouth. As usual her hair would not behave.

"How are you, wild thing?"

"Wonderful. The snow is everywhere!" She spun in circles as her coat and skirt belled out about her shins sending water droplets flying onto her siblings.

"Come on now, Arya," Robb huffed, "Father sent us to fetch all of you. Consider yourselves fetched!" Robb surged ahead with Arya close behind calling for Bran to join the family upstairs. Sansa closed the French doors to the terrace behind her as she came back into the house. Jon offered her his arm. She smiled curiously as she took it and let him lead her to the parlor upstairs. Paintings taller than them surrounded them on the marble staircase. Jon usually admired them as he climbed the stairs, but today he found himself admiring Sansa. She'd grown into a beautiful young woman, and strong. And smart. Goodness she was smart. People didn't give Sansa enough credit for her brains, and Jon included himself in the long list of fools who had underestimated her strength and intellect. Ever since June, he'd been trying to take every opportunity he could to rectify that mistake. He didn't see her much considering he spent most of the year at school. By his calculations, and he hoped they were wrong, the mistake would be rectified, at the earliest, in twenty five years.

"Jon?" Sansa said, bringing him back to the present.

"Hmm?"

"Is everything alright? My hair isn't a mess from the cold outside, is it?"

"Fine. Everything is fine," he said collecting his wits, "You're lovely. You look lovely." he quickly corrected himself. Sansa caught his slip in words, but she said nothing. It would be their little secret.

"Shall we then?" Sansa asked. He looked about and noticed they'd reached the second floor parlor. Too soon, he thought, either that or just in time.

"Yes, of course," he said clearing his throat and opening the door for her. She released his arm in order to walk into the room. He felt her absence immediately. _Careful Jon_ , he told himself, _careful._

* * *

Ned, Catelyn, and Benjen all watched the looks that passed between their children. They all exchanged meaningful glances over their cups of hot tea and coffee.

"It could be nothing," Ned remarked.

"Or it could be something," Catelyn countered.

'They're children." Ned continued, taking a sip of his coffee.

"They are grown. And from grown children come other children." Ned choked on his coffee. Catelyn sat unperturbed by the facts of life.

"They're young," Ned managed to say between coughs.

"We were young once," Catelyn said as she gazed at her husband. He returned her gaze, glad to see her smiles were making a more frequent appearance. Benjen stayed quiet and instead observed his son and his niece as they sat down apart from the rest of the Stark children, speaking to each other and smiling. He watched and recognized the looks between them, as they discovered each other for what seemed like the first time. He hoped that if anything came of these fleeting glances and kindred conversations, that it wouldn't end in too much heartache. Jon had enough of that for one lifetime, as young as he was.

"Benjen, you are awful quiet sitting there with your cup," Ned commented, bringing Benjen out of his reverie.

"I didn't want to share in the intimate glances occurring between man and wife," he said, "it is too odd a thing for a brother to exchange such glances with his siblings." Ned flushed red, but Catelyn laughed a hearty laugh, one Benjen hadn't heard since before word came to them that Lysa lost her husband in the war.

"Do join us though," Catelyn said, "we promise to keep the glances at a minimum."

"You are very kind, but please don't stop on my account. I enjoy love as long as I am a distant observer."

"A bachelor through and through," Ned teased.

"Yes, well, someone has to keep a level head. Just think, Ned. Catelyn could go absolutely mad for a taste of Parisian macaroons, and you would hop on a boat to France to fetch them for her. Then who would manage the company in your absence? That is why you have me."

"He has a point,' Catelyn agreed, "Though I would much rather you fetch me a custard dessert from Spain. That is more to my liking than macaroons."

"As you wish, dear wife," Ned remarked with a pat to her hand.

"My point exactly," Benjen declared.

"I have been thinking of that recently," Ned said, suddenly sober, "if you and I are absent, the logical choice would be Robb, wouldn't it?"

"And Jon," Benjen added, "would play second to Robb as I play second to you, helping you in business negotiations and the like."

"If you weren't as dedicated to the military as a young man maybe I would be playing second to you," Ned teased, "but we are getting older. Either of us could fall ill at any time." Catelyn squeezed her husband's hand in response.

"This damn war is coming closer and closer to our side of the Atlantic. And with such hostile sentiments towards the Germans I don't know if we will avoid it much longer. And I know Jon. He is growing to be a fine young man, but a man too much like myself. I am sure he would enlist if the war came to our coastlines." Benjen glanced at Jon as he and Sansa conversed with more and more animation.

"In fact, I would not be surprised if Jon would enlist just to keep the war from reaching our coastlines, to ensure those he cared about were safe from harm."

"Robb would follow suit," Ned remarked, "it's not like Robb and Jon do anything separately anymore. They are nearly joined at the hip."

"Enough," Catelyn interjected, "all this talk of war and duty. I don't want to hear any more of this, whether it relates to business or not. You can talk about it after Christmas, but I don't want to hear anymore before then." Benjen and Ned shared a look before putting their hands over Catelyn's.

"I'm sorry sister," Benjen said, "I promise not to say a word more about it until after Christmas."

"As do I," Ned promised, "but we will have to speak on the subject again eventually."

"I know,' Catelyn said softly, "just not now." Ned brought his wife's hand up to him lips before interlacing his fingers with hers. Benjen sat back in his seat watching a second becoming pair laughing uncontrollably as Rickon pranced about them pretending to have antlers like a reindeer. He looked once more at his son's eyes and noticed the shining twinkle he had when Sansa laughed. _Careful Jon_ , he thought to himself, _careful._


	4. Chapter 4

**Hello lovely readers! this is part 1 of the Christmas Day chapters. Things to mention here are a few social norms worth mentioning that will make some sense out of some of the dialogue. Unmarried young couples were always chaperoned, never meant to be left alone. Sansa and John in this story are an unusual pair in an unusual situation. Due to Benjen adopting Jon, it is not completely inappropriate for them to be alone together. however, due to the fact they are of courting age and not siblings walking alone together could be considered a scandalous action. Ned is progressive, as you will discover, obviously. :P anyways, please enjoy the latest installment of my story. :) - FlamingRose**

Christmas Day 1916, Winterfell

Sansa awoke to a light snowfall outside her window, and the cries of Rickon shouting about Christmas presents. She got up and dressed in a white shirt with a red velvet collar and cuffs cinched at the wrist with pearl buttons. She put on her wool stockings and her green skirt, slipped on her shoes, and brushed her hair. As she finished twisting half of her hair into a braided knot, Arya burst through the door of her room.

"Sansa, come on! Come into the parlor! The sooner we are all there the sooner we can open gifts!"

"I'm coming Arya," she chuckled in amusement as she stood from her vanity. She came into the parlor and was greeted warmly by her family, Jon and uncle Benjen included. That Christmas was one the Stark children would never forget. It was happy, peaceful, and everyone was together, all happy and smiling. Rickon got a sled and a yoyo, Arya got a new bridle for her horse, a new bow and arrows, and a black ribbon so she could at least try to keep her hair out of her face when she shot at the target. Bran got books, fiction and non-fiction, as well as ink and paper. Robb was given a fountain pen, new shoes, and a hunting knife as well as a promise from Ned that they would go hunting as soon as possible. Jon received a hunting knife as well with a matching promise from Ned and an abacus from Uncle Benjen that had Jon at a loss for words due to the overwhelming emotion he experienced at the sight of it. Sansa received gorgeous threads and ribbons from the haberdashery as well as a band of delicate lace meant to accompany a blue dress. From Uncle Benjen she got a tiny box made of cherry wood.

"It's lovely," she said with a smile.

"That's not all. Go on and open it," Benjen instructed. Sansa slid open the box to find a small pouch enclosed. She took out the pouch and opened it in her hand. Out fell a silver hairpin molded into the shape of roses. Delicate silver petals gleamed in the palm of her hand and small sapphires winked at her from between the carefully crafted leaves.

"Uncle Benjen!" she gasped, "it's beautiful!"

"Thank Jon for that one," he said with a wink, "I was completely clueless as to what would be appropriate. He saved my hide this Christmas, that's for sure."

"Thank you," Sansa said looking at Jon, "this is so…perfect."

"You're welcome," he replied, his cheeks turning pink from the attention he was receiving from everyone. He wasn't used to so many people watching so intently.

"I'll wear it at dinner tonight," Sansa promised as she put the pin carefully back in its' box.

"Alright everyone, to the breakfast room. Septa has ensured that a wonderful, warm breakfast has been made for all of us. Downstairs with you!" Catelyn ordered. Everyone made their way to the breakfast room to a breakfast of meats, eggs, warm bread, sweet rolls, and coffee as well as hot chocolate for the younger ones of the merry party.

"Sweet rolls," mused bran, actually sounding as young as he was, "it really is Christmas."

As the family finished breakfast, Catelyn declared that everyone should get ready for church. They would be taking the carriage so as to keep dry. Sansa reveled in the cold air hitting her face as she walked out to the drive with Arya. Too soon did she find herself in the carriage on the way to the church. She almost wished they would have walked.

The church was modestly decorated for Christmas with wreaths on the doors and red ribbons around the sconces at the entry. There were only locals at church. The Starks were the only ones from out of town. Sansa liked it this way. This way she could pray without being watched. At home, she'd be much too aware of the prying eyes of other elite families. They'd judge everything from the hem of her skirt to the way her hair fell about her face. Here, no one bothered her. Here she could pray in peace as the powers that be intended.

As they came out of the church, she felt the snow fall about her on her head and shoulders. It was constant, but light and gentle. She turned her face up to the sky, letting the snow kiss her cheeks, falling lightly on her lips and lashes. The Starks took their time leaving the church. Benjen and Ned spoke with the pastor. The locals were wishing them all a merry Christmas. To Sansa's relief, no one asked why they were all there in the off-season. Aunt Lyasa's tragedy was not something she wanted her mother to rehash on such a joyful day. Most Americans, though concerned, saw the war in Europe as they saw the wars in old history books. They all had their theories and opinions, but it wasn't real for any of them. May of 1916 changed that for the Starks. Since May, the war waging in Europe was very real for all of them.

"Father," Sansa addressed Ned, "could I take a walk about the church grounds? I wish to pray for Aunt Lysa."

"Of course sweet girl," Ned said with a kiss to her forehead, "don't be gone too long. Arya will be anxious to get home."

'Thank you," Sansa said with a smile, "I won't be gone long." She turned to make her way along the path to the church yard. As she walked, she admired the intricate carvings of the Victorian headstones, but she was drawn to the simple designs of the century old headstones. She looked at the simple gravestones adorned with winged skulls and weeping willows draping over urns all neatly organized in their rows and columns, sometimes accompanied by the more modern markers showing generation next to generation in the same family plot. She wondered if they had walked among similar rows as she was doing now, marveling at the people who came before them. She slowly walked past the graves, muttering small prayers under her breath for every soul she passed. She made her way through the snow covered lawn when she encountered a young, dark haired man standing in front of two grave stones, staring out at nothing in particular. She could tell by the fur lined coat who it was.

"Jon?"

"Sansa," he replied, startled to find another living soul among the dead, "what are you doing here?"

"I'm taking a walk. I wanted some solitude. To pray."

"Oh, I'm sorry. I am interrupting that solitude. I'll go."

"No! Um, it's fine. I was going to go back soon."

"Alright," Jon answered, shifting awkwardly in his spot.

"Um, what are you doing in the graveyard?" she asked, attempting conversation. He seemed to grow even more uncomfortable at the question.

"Usually after church on Christmas day, Benjen and I go to the graveyard to visit my parents. So habit, I suppose."

"Oh." It was Sansa's turn to feel awkward and uncomfortable.

"We put a wreath down," he continued, "then we walk home, whether it's snowing or sunny it doesn't matter. We all have our traditions I guess."

"Do you miss them?" Sansa asked. She knew the answer, but she didn't know what else to say.

'Yes," he said trying to keep his voice from shaking, "all the time."

"I'm sorry…and now you can't see them this Christmas because we came here…"

"It's alright,"

"No, it's not," Sansa countered, "traditions are important, and we are all together and I have everyone here, and you—"

"Sansa," Jon interrupted gently, "it's alright. Honest." Sansa shifted about. She wanted to do something, fix things. She wanted Jon's parents to be alive. She wanted him to be happy and not feel so lost or out of place. She wanted to make it all better. She wasn't quite sure how she could until her eyes fell on the gravestones Jon was standing in front of. The stones were for a couple, William and Maisie Jacobs. Maisie died before William according to the markers. Sansa saw an ash tree growing behind the memorial statue of an angel. She made her way to it snapping off thin but bendable twigs from one of the low branches. Jon watched her as she quickly weaved and linked the twigs together to form a barren wreath. It was small and not her best work due to her fingers being cold, but to Jon it was yet another incredible gift from this Christmas. His father's abacus was overwhelming and exceedingly kind of Benjen to pass on to him, but this modest wreath made of mere splinters in a cold cemetery, all so he could have his usual Christmas was a gift he would cherish above the rest. He had underestimated her again. Her kindness was greater than he ever imagined, too.

"It's not much," she said handing him the wreath, "and these aren't your parents, but maybe William and Maisie can pass on the message this Christmas. At least until we get back and you can visit them properly."

"It's perfect," he managed to say, "thank you, Sansa."

"You're welcome. I'll give you some solitude. I'll wait by the gate for you." She walked away as he gently and carefully held the wreath between his hands.

Sansa watched as Jon bent down over the graves. She was lost in her thoughts when she felt a hand on her shoulder.

'Sansa," Ned spoke softly, trying his best not to startle her, "its past time we were going."

"I'd like to walk back to Winterfell with Jon, if I may," she said, not tearing her eyes away from the young man's back.

"It's cold, and a long walk in this weather. Your clothes will be wet."

"I don't mind." Sansa said turning to meet her father's eyes, "besides, I'll be with Jon. I'll be safe. Please?" Ned Stark sighed. He was as defenseless against his daughter's pleas as his wife's.

"Of course, dear daughter," Ned acquiesced, "as you wish." He squeezed her hand as he looked at the boy by the headstones. He seemed to have grown overnight to be the young man he saw now. His daughter, too, and grown to be a beautiful young woman. Soon—sooner than Ned would like—they would no longer be children. _At least she will be safe_ , Ned thought to himself, _if she were walking home with that Baratheon boy it would be an entirely different matter._

Jon approached Sansa at the gate where she had been standing watch.

"I hope I haven't kept the family too long."

"No, I told them to go ahead," she said wringing her hands nervously, "I said I would walk back to the house with you." Jon's eyebrows rose in surprise.

"Sansa, its cold out."

"I know. I like the cold. Besides, you said whether it's snowing or sunny." Jon was touched by the gesture. She was recreating his Christmas traditions as close as she could, even the walk to the house.

"Your skirts will get wet from the snow."

"I don't mind."

"It would be considered improper…"

"No one is here to see us. Besides, we're cousins. What about our walking together would be considered improper?" Jon let the question hang between them. He did not want to answer. A look Sansa could not cypher passed across his face before he sighed in resignation. He could not deny her.

"As you wish," he replied with a small smile. She returned the smile eagerly, and he knew she would always win him over with that smile. He was defenseless against it.

* * *

"Where's Jon?" Arya asked as she stared out the window of the upstairs parlor.

"He and Sansa are walking from the churchyard," Robb answered her. The younger children went ahead to the house with Catelyn while Benjen, Ned, and Robb waited for Sansa and Jon. When Ned told them Sansa and Jon decided to walk, Robb wasn't sure what perplexed him more: Father and Uncle Benjen's shared look or the fact Sansa was chosing to soak her skirts to walk home. Ever since the Lannister's party his sister had been acting strangely. She spoke to jon more than she used to—a lot more. She was going out of her way to speak to him. She really did have the most peculiar behavior these days. For that matter, Sansa wasn't the only one acting strangely. He could forgive his mother for odd behavior. His uncle's death took quite a toll on her. His father and Uncle Benjen, however, also were behaving oddly. They had been exchanging odd glances lately and seemed graver than usual. Robb wasn't convinced it was all because of the war. Something else was going on, or at least his father and uncle thought there was something going on.

"How long does it take to walk from the church to the house?" Arya huffed.

"Longer than a carriage ride," Robb answered his impatient sister, "come now, they'll be back before you know it."

"I wanted to set up the target in the lawn so I could break in my new bow," she sighed, "I was going to have Jon help me."

"You are like no other fourteen year old girl I have ever met," Robb mused, "and that is why I love you, dear sister." He nudged her cheek gently with his knuckle, and she looked at him with one of her rare sweet smiles void of mischief.

"come on. I'll help you set up the target on the lawn. Then when Jon comes back, you can show him how it's done."

'Alright," Arya said, all the mischief returning to her face. She skipped her way to the hall and Robb followed her down the stairs and outside.

"Robb," Bran said from his spot on the terrace, "where are you going?"

"Arya is going to use her new bow."

"Where's Jon?"

"He and Sansa are walking back from the church. They'll be back soon."

"Sansa? Hmm." Bran got a faraway look, lik he was calculating something in his head.

'Do you want to join us?"

"Huh?"

"Come on Bran, join us," Robb encouraged, "how long has it been since you shot an arrow?" A smile broke out over Bran's face. Robb felt victorious.

"Too long," Bran admitted as he closed his book.

"Come on then. Get your coat." He followed as Bran ran outside putting on his coat as he followed his younger siblings to the lawn. He couldn't wait to see Jon and Sansa's faces when he told them he got Bran to go outside.

* * *

Jon and Sansa walked side by side in total silence. The air was charged with nervous energy and fleeting glances they would take when they were sure the other wasn't looking. Sansa was wringing her hands, following the seams of her gloves with her fingertips. She wondered why this was considered improper. He'd said the same thing at the Lannister house. Why? What was so improper? She was worried Jon thought of himself as improper; improper company? She wished he wouldn't.

He could not stop the thoughts and feelings, and he didn't know what to make of them. They must have been there before only to sneak up on him over the last couple of days. Frankly they were coming to him in such rapid succession he was having trouble sorting them all out. He enjoyed Sansa's company more than he expected he would, but there were other things in play: nerves, a bit of fear, excitement accompanied by sadness and an aching in his chest he couldn't quite define. He found himself smiling and laughing a lot more than he used to, and he supposed that was a good thing, but still in moments like these when he was alone with her or held her gaze longer than was customary, he felt like he was doing something wrong…like he broke a rule or something. He was being ridiculous, he knew he was. Sansa herself said they were cousins. He should keep his fantastical fancies to himself. He doubted she was experiencing the same turmoil herself.

"The house isn't too far now," Sansa said attempting to break the tension. Jon only nodded.

"I'm sorry. I'm not entirely sure how these walks are supposed to go. Do you usually talk?"

"Sometimes, and sometimes not," Jon replied.

"Jon," Sansa said. She took hold of his arm to stop him. He looked at her fingers curling around his forearm and waited.

"I really am sorry."

"For what?" he asked, perplexed.

"I—I don't know…for intruding? I just took the reins. I didn't really ask if this was alright. It's just so unfair. I have both parents and you have none, and I know you have Uncle Benjen, but it's not the same. And then we had to have Christmas here…You are so kind and good. It's not fair that you've suffered so much." He was saddened to see the troubled look in her eye give way to pain. He was moved by her concern for him. He gently removed her hands from his arm and held them in his.

"Sansa," he said, coaxing her to look at him, "you did not intrude. This is the best gift anyone could have given me considering the circumstances. I'll admit, it wasn't easy to adjust after church today, but your gesture means the world to me. You made sure I had my version of Christmas. I'm glad we're here. You have nothing to be sorry for." Snow was falling about them, landing on their shoulders and their gloved hands. It was tangling into her hair and melting as it landed on her cheeks. He didn't' want to move. He might miss something if he did; a sigh, a smile, something to fill him with the feeling he craved when he was with her. He knew no one was on the path, no one was here to see their moment of tenderness, yet the feeling of guilt, like he was doing something wrong, made its way uninvited into his head. He gave her hands a squeeze, and she promptly tightened her grip around his, neither of them daring to look away from each other.

"We better go on," Jon said softly, "they'll wonder where we are." Sansa nodded, breaking their gaze and releasing his hands to continue walking on the path. Again, he felt her absence immediately. As they continued their walk and Winterfell came into view, Jon had an epiphany. It came in increments. The storm inside his head that had been whirling and confusing the many thoughts started to calm, and as things settled, he slowly realized the sentiment that was made up of all his overwhelming feelings. He yearned for Sansa Stark.


	5. Chapter 5

**Hello lovelies! I am updating twice today because I hate leaving days unfinished, but this particular day had so much activity i had to split it into two different chapters. Things to mention on this chapter is making note of the slang used in this chapter. Simp means idiot and Screw means to do harm against a person. I hope you enjoy this installment of A Search for Solace. much love! -FlamingRose**

Christmas Day 1916, cont.

As they got closer to the house they heard laughter in the distance. Sansa and Jon exchanged curious looks, both identifying the laugh as Bran's. They made their way around the house to the lawn. Robb, Arya, Rickon, and Bran were shooting Arya's new bow, and by the looks of it, Arya was the master of it in the group.

"Jon! Sansa! Look!" Arya called when she saw them, "Robb got Bran to go outside!"

"As I live and breathe!" Sansa teased. She tried her best to put the moment with Jon to the back of her mind. The way Jon looked at her was so magnetic. It took all her strength to look away. She hadn't wanted to let go of him. If anything she wanted to bring him closer, feel him against her taking breaths in and out, feeling the rhythm of his heartbeat against hers. But ladies did not make such bold gestures. Besides, she felt as if she'd made enough decisions of that nature for one day, and she didn't want Jon to feel uncomfortable around her.

"Bran, the snow truly becomes you," Jon chuckled, "all that time inside has ensured your complexion blends in nicely with the scenery." In retaliation Bran threw a snowball at Jon, which then started a war. Sansa squealed as she ran to Arya's side, arming herself with a snowball. She and Arya were back to back, keeping themselves safe, and then Arya hit Jon squarely in the chest.

"Et tu, Arya?" Jon dramatically shouted, "Robb, we've been betrayed!"

"This is war!" Robb declared as the fight ensued, the archery forgotten as the Stark children took off running through the grounds, Robb and Jon pursued by the rest. Jon was quicker than Robb, and he set the pace towards the beech tree on the far side of the lawn. Soon they were high in the tree, taunting Rickon, Bran, Sansa, and Arya. The latter group threw snowballs with no restraint. Bran even made it a ways up the tree before running out of snowballs to toss. Too soon, Catelyn called to the children to come inside. Dinner would be served at five, and they had to get dry and cleaned up. Reluctantly, the Starks made their way inside. Robb and Jon walked behind the rest at a distance. Robb took the opportunity to talk to Jon about all that had been on his mind.

"Our fathers have been acting strangely," Robb said to Jon.

"The war has really put things in perspective for a lot of people. Especially businessmen like our fathers."

"I think it's more than that," Robb insisted, "They keep sharing grave glances and worried looks with each other."

"Do you think the steel mill is in trouble?" Jon asked.

"I don't know. I don't think so. Has Uncle Benjen said anything to you?"

"No," Jon muttered, puzzled, "perhaps the war is affecting business. They need steel overseas. Perhaps they are concerned about supplying such an endeavor. To do so would be taking a very public stand with the British war effort."

"I don't know, but the way they look so grave worries me. Speaking of glances, what goes on between you and my sister?" Robb asked with a bump to Jon's shoulder. Jon swallowed nervously and willed himself not to blush.

"Nothing," Jon replied.

"Oh please," Robb scoffed, "something is amiss. Ever since the Lannisters' ball she's been behaving so strangely towards you."

"Strangely?"

"Out of character," Robb explained looking around to make sure no one could hear their conversation, "did something happen at the ball that I should know about? Did Joffery—?"

"No! No, Robb. Nothing happened. I made sure of it, just as you did. I asked her to dance so Joffrey wouldn't have the chance. She's just—grateful, I suppose," he finished lamely.

'Alright," Robb said relieved, "thank you for looking after my sister."

"Of course."

"You're a good friend," Robb smiled. They arrived at the terrace and walked carefully upstairs so as not to slip on the marble steps. They went their separate ways to their bedrooms. As Jon closed the door behind him he let out a breath he didn't know he was holding. The realizations of the day had been a lot to handle, but Robb's questions regarding Sansa had been something else entirely. The word frightening came to mind. Robb's questions regarding the mill sparked a different kind of concern. Was business bad? And if it was, why hadn't Benjen said anything? It wasn't like Benjen to keep his thoughts a secret. He took off his necktie and loosened his collar before slipping out of his shoes. Thoughts of the day were swirling in his mind. He hoped a warm bath could clear them before dinner.

* * *

Sansa lowered herself slowly into the tub of hot water. Wisps of steam came off the top warning her of the heat, but she didn't care. It was soothing to her aching body. She hadn't expected to walk from the churchyard, and her feet suffered for it. A small price to pay in exchange for Jon's comfort on Christmas. She wanted to make sure he felt like he belonged, and she would be lying if she denied feeling happy when he said her gift was the best gift he received. She closed her eyes and let her body relax and her mind wander. She allowed herself to daydream of that night's feast: snow covered grounds and warm fires, crisp wassail, mulled wine, and a plump goose made to Septa Mordane's exact specifications. Merriment and laughter, Uncle Benjen's stories and jokes, and Jon…Jon sitting across from her, his eyes shining in the candlelight, that same look he had for her the night of the Lannister ball—like he was divulging a secret to her and only her. His dark curls and handsome chin, the dimples that formed in his cheeks when he smiled…there was a knock at the door. Sansa was startled out of her reverie.

"Yes?"

"Sansa, are you almost finished?" Arya called, "I need my hairbrush!" Sansa sighed.

"Just come in to get it! And close the door. I don't want the warmth escaping." Arya quickly made her way inside and closed the door. She was dressed quite prettily in a crimson dress cinched at the waist. Sansa ordinarily would have thought crimson too bold, but Arya's dress was more subtle due to the black piping along the panels of fabric. It was a beautiful piece of fashion, and Sansa was impressedArya had such an article of clothing in her possession. She watched from the tub as her sister brushed her hair, her brow furrowed in concentration, her hair unwilling to cooperate as usual. As Arya was finishing up, Sansa stepped out of the tub wrapping herself in her dressing gown.

'Sansa, could you put this ribbon in my hair?" Arya asked holding out the black ribbon she'd gotten that morning, "it won't do what I want it to…I swear one day I will just chop it all off. Maybe it will listen to you." Sansa smiled as she took the ribbon from Arya's hand.

"There," she said after a few moments of hair taming; "now it's in its place." Sansa smiled at her sister through the mirror.

"Now I have a gift for you."

"A gift?" Arya repeated, "Why didn't you give it to me this morning?"

"I didn't want the boys to get jealous. Besides, I don't want mother and father to know. This is our secret." Arya's face broke into a smile, eager and curious. The last time someone gave her a secret gift was when Jon gave her a Swedish hunting knife two years back. It fit so perfectly in her hand, and she hid it under her bed in a spot she was sure no one would find it. She was intrigued to see what kind of secret gift Sansa's was going to be.

"Come with me to my room," Sansa said with a wink. Arya skipped behind her sister. Sansa went to her desk and took a parcel out of the top drawer. She turned and handed it to Arya who unwrapped it in haste. As she removed the brown paper, her eyes went wide.

"Sansa!" she cried, "they're wonderful!" She held out the pair of trousers to get a good look, then went to the mirror to put them in front of her on her waist. Sansa had outdone herself this year.

"I'll make alterations to them for you. They're a little long, and they might be big around the waist, but we can fix that. You can try them on after dessert tonight."

"Thank you!" Arya said as she threw her arms around her sister, "they're perfect."

"You're welcome," Sansa chuckled. Arya scampered to her room.

"You are the best sister a girl could ask for!" She exclaimed with a smile before going through the bathroom to her room. Now alone, Sansa began to dress for the evening. She put on her underthings, her stockings and underskirts. She selected a blue dress to wear to dinner. She put on a simple silver necklace and sat down to arrange her hair. She brushed it until it shined smooth and free of knots. She then carefully twisted section of her hair, placing the pin from Uncle Benjen and Jon expertly in her hair. She admired the way in gleamed in the soft light. She loved it. Not even a day and she already had such a strong attachment to it. She took a breath and tried to calm her giddiness. Septa was sure to have prepared a lemon cake with a white icing drizzle for dessert. And her goose was always the best in New England. She looked at the clock. It was time to go to dinner.

She entered the dining room to be met with warm smiles and greetings from all of her family. Everyone rushed to choose their seats and hurried to sit so that the long anticipated meal could begin.

"I want to sit next to Jon!" Arya declared as she chose her seat. Sansa chose the seat next to Robb and across from Jon, happy to see that the light from the candles made Jon's eyes shine beautifully.

"That hair pin is even more beautiful on your person, Sansa," Uncle Benjen observed, "don't you think so, Jon?" her mother cleared her throat and shot Uncle Benjen a look Sansa didn't understand. Uncle Benjen merely smiled cheekily in response.

"Yes," Jon said. He'd been admiring her since she came through the door, and he had yet to take his eyes off her. Such behavior might have unnerved Sansa before, she might have even called it indecent, but now his attentions elated and excited her. A tinge of fear came into the mix of feelings. It surprised her that her vision of Jon was changing so drastically. A knight in soot covered armor never looked so appealing before. She was starting to understand what Jon meant when he said their behavior could be considered improper.

Jon realized he had been staring at his cousin for much longer than was deemed appropriate. He averted his eyes and focused intently on unfolding his napkin and placing it in his lap. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Robb trying to make sense of his and Sansa's behavior. Jon was almost fearful of hoe Robb might react if he discovered that Jon was pining for his sister, that since late June this feeling had been seeping into him little by little, finally culminating in the realizations of this afternoon. Maybe he would understand, but then again, maybe not. It took Jon this long to understand what was happening, and it was happening to him.

Arya watched the exchange between her sister and Jon curiously. She knew something was going on between them. Why the shared glances and the walks outside in the cold? Something was amiss. She thought of asking one of them, but she doubted they would tell her. Jon might, but sansa wouldn't. When she wanted to hide something, she hid it well. She was always the best at hide and seek when they were younger.

* * *

Dinner was incredible, just as Sansa imagined it while sitting in the warm water of the bathtub. The goose, the wassail, even the green beans were wonderful. And Jon, sitting across from her, his features illuminated in the candlelight. His smiles, his handsome chin, his eyes, all softened by the glow of the candles. As everyone started to move slowly to the parlor upstairs Sansa smiled with absolute contentment.

"Septa Mordane has outdone herself," Uncle Benjen declared, "You'll have to roll me up the stairs to bed. Jon, Robb, I have assigned the task to you two strong young men."

"We will do our best uncle," Robb laughed as he looked at Jon out of the corner of his eye. All through dinner Robb had kept an eye on his cousin. He was hoping Jon and Sansa might say something at dinner that would give him a clue as to what transpired between them at the Lannister house, but they said not a word to each other. They exchanged nothing but looks all night. And what's more, they were both so content to leave it at that. It was like their own language. If he didn't know any better, Robb would think the pair in love.

Arya smiled as she went up the stairs daydreaming about her trousers. She couldn't wait to go upstairs to try them on. She'd have Sansa help her, just in case they didn't fit. That way, Sansa could fix them for her. She was one of the best seamstresses Arya knew. The Stark family had a seamstress on staff to take accoutrements off and on dresses before and after washing or to make adjustments to hemlines and waistlines, but Sansa insisted on learning as much as she could about needlework. Arya thought it silly how much Sansa fretted over ridiculous things like piping and embroidery stiches, but as she got older, she started to see the sense of knowing so much about sewing. She'd begun to admire the talent.

Once upstairs the lemon cake was served. Sansa couldn't hold back her eager smile as a piece of cake was passed to her. She savored the taste of it, the lightness and sharp, sweet citrus taste. As they all finished their cake, Ned asked for a song.

"Sansa, my dear," he said gently, "may we have a song?"

"Yes, Sansa, please sing!" Rickon added, "You have the prettiest voice."

"If Bran plays with me," Sansa answered looking at her brother. Rickon's smile grew.

"Oh yes! Please Bran!" Bran could not deny his brother's pleas. He sat down at the piano and opened the lid. He began playing, and Sansa began singing Silent Night. She continued with The First Noel. Arya and Rickon, full from the night's rich food, were drifting to sleep. Uncle Benjen, Mother, and Father were smiling to themselves. Robb was tapping his finger against his knee keeping time with the music—a far off look on his face. Jon had his eyes closed, the most beautiful, serene smile gracing his lips.

As Sansa sang, Jon could not help but look at her from time to time. She was radiant in her blue dress, and she sang so sweetly. He closed his eyes to preserve the memory and his propriety. If he didn't close his eyes he'd be staring too much, and people would notice. As she and Bran finished Oh, Holy Night, Bran stifled a yawn.

"It's late," Sansa said, "I suppose we should all retire for the night."

"A wise choice, daughter," Ned said standing. He came to kiss Sansa on the forehead before scooping up a sleeping Rickon in his arms.

'Robb, help your sister to bed," Ned said nodding towards the sleeping Arya. Robb did as his father told him, picking her up gently, trying his best not to wake her. Uncle Benjen made his way out of the parlor escorting his sister in law leaving Jon, Bran, and Sansa in the room. Bran moved to put away the sheet music, but Sansa stopped him with a gentle touch to his hand.

"That's alright Bran," she said, "I'll pick it up." He smiled sleepily and thanked her as he walked to his room. She picked up the sheet music one by one, slowly and carefully, all too aware of Jon's eyes on her back. They were alone.

"It is impolite to stare, Jon," she said softly.

"I'm sorry," he apologized, flustered. She turned to smile at him, trying her best to keep her giggles stifled. Jon's face relaxed into a relieved expression. She was teasing him again.

"It's quite alright. I am guilty of the same social sin," Sansa replied, "I definitely stared at you through dinner enough to be impolite three times over." A blush came to her cheeks. She was being bold again. A lady did not speak like this. Arya would be so proud of her.

"It's alright. I didn't mind," Jon replied with a smile. He wondered at his lack of filter. _You idiot what are you saying?_ He chastised himself internally. They stood facing each other, the air thick with tension. They both could feel their own yearning build with every second they stood so far apart. Jon took one step forward.

"Sansa—"

"Jon?" she inquired mirroring his steps.

Jon lost his nerve. That familiar guilt was coming to the surface. He wasn't high born. He was not worthy of a woman like her.

"Merry Christmas," he said. Sansa was too close to take the resignation. She wanted so badly to touch him. Before she lost her nerve, she quickly took steps toward him and put a hand on his forearm, like she had during their walk. In a blur, she kissed him on the cheek. Jon's eyes widened in surprise.

"Merry Christmas," she said quietly.

Jon was not himself, or perhaps he was finally behaving as himself when he moved a stray strand of hair behind her ear, his thumb grazing her cheek, and glanced at Sansa's mouth. The way he looked at her so uninhibited, so intently and so vulnerable, Sansa was sure he was going to kiss her. Instead he closed his eyes, his hand cupping her cheek, and leaned his forehead against hers. He rested there for a moment before slowly backing away from her.

"Goodnight," he muttered before escaping quickly to his room. Sansa sunk down in the nearest chair desperate to find her breath again. She somehow lost it. Jon took it when he closed the distance between them. She needed a moment to compose herself.

Jon closed the door to his room behind him and let out the breath he'd been holding. His face felt hot and his heart was beating at what must have been a mile a minute. His mind raced as he undressed. What was he thinking? What if Uncle Ned or Robb or—God forbid—Aunt Catelyn had come in? How would he explain his behavior? How could he have been so reckless? He had to stop this foolishness. She was Sansa Stark. She'd marry a handsome, intelligent, wealthy, well connected man someday. Like a Tyrell or a Baratheon. Well, not a Baratheon. Someone kinder than Joffrey, much much kinder. Like a Greyjoy. Theon perhaps, once he came to his senses and stopped courting a new girl every week. Someone like that was an appropriate match for Sansa, not Jon. But the way she had said his name…so full of hope…he would do anything in the world to keep her hope from shattering. And _she_ kissed _him_. Sansa—the perfect lady! She knew her etiquette like the back of her hand, and tonight she abandoned it. Her tender gaze, gentle hand, her soft lips against his skin…Jon flopped on the bed, face in the pillow, and let out a frustrated groan that quickly turned into a growl. He was in trouble now. This is what he got for not being careful.

* * *

When Sansa finally composed herself she slowly got up from her chair and deliberately put one foot in front of the other all the way to her room. When she got to the door she opened it with a trembling hand and let herself in. She shut the door and leaned her forehead against it letting out a slow, shaky breath.

"What's up with you?" her little sister said from behind her. Sansa jumped as she turned around to see Arya perched on her bed.

"Arya! You frightened me," Sansa admonished, "I thought Robb carried you to bed."

"He did."

"You were asleep in the parlor."

"Yes, but I woke up once Robb took me to my room. I waited till he left before sneaking into your room to wait for you."

"What do you want?" Arya grinned as she brought the trousers out from under her. Sansa allowed herself a tired smile. Of course.

"I want to make sure they fit just right."

'Alright," Sansa said as she went to turn on her desk lamp, "put them on and stand in front of the mirror." She dug through her desk drawer for her sewing kit. She turned the lamp towards arya shining as much light as she could on her sister.

"This is going to take a while since I'm working in the dark, and you'll have to stay still."

"I can stand still," Arya declared confidently. Sansa stifled a laugh.

'I can!" Arya whispered back fiercely.

"Okay," Sansa conceded, "I'll believe it when I see it," she added, knowing Arya would take it as a challenge. She set about pinning hems and seams making sure to allow for flexibility. The pants would do Arya no good if she couldn't run and jump and climb in them the way her dresses sometimes inhibited her from doing. Sansa made sure to give her a full range of motion.

"What took you so long to get to your room?" Arya asked. Arya thought she sensed hesitation in her sister, but when she looked at her she was unfazed and steadily going about the task of pinning the hem of her right pant leg.

"I was picking up the sheet music," Sansa replied.

"That's a long time to pick up sheet music," Arya observed suspiciously.

"I just took my time," Sansa explained. Arya remained unconvinced.

"Now stop fidgeting or these pants will never be hemmed," Sansa said changing the subject. Arya looked forward again. She didn't press her sister, but she knew she was hiding something. She thought back to that evening's dinner. Surely Jon knew. They seemed to be sharing the secret, whatever it was. Arya decided to change the subject.

"I don't want to go back to the city," she said softly, "I want to stay in Winterfell."

"The Lannisters are sure to comment on our absence if we don't go to the Tyrell's New Year ball," Sansa answered not looking up from her task.

"All the more reasons to stay put," Arya bristled, "screw the Lannisters. They're all a bunch of simps, the lot of them."

"Arya!" Sansa scolded, "You wouldn't want harm to come to Myrcella, would you?"

"I suppose not."

"Remember, she is still a Lannister."

"I still think they're simps."

"No one as cruel as Joffrey could get away with the things he does by being a simp," Sansa said, her voice low with distaste. Arya smirked at her sister's use of slang.

"I didn't think'simp' was a word proper ladies used," Arya teased.

"I seem to be doing a lot of things proper ladies don't do lately," Sansa blurted. She focused on pinning the hem of the left pant leg.

'What kind of things?" Arya asked eagerly, her mischievous smile making its way onto her face.

"Hold still," Sansa ordered.

"Don't change the subject," Arya shot back, "what kinds of things, Sansa?" Sansa took her time answering, hoping the silence would be too much for her sister, but Arya stubbornly waited—Sansa finished pinning the pant leg before answering.

'Well, getting into a snowball fight today was not very ladylike," Sansa replied, grateful she thought of something, "or wandering through the churchyard in the snow."

"I guess getting your skirts wet in the snow doesn't fit in the manners book," Arya assented. Sansa was glad there wasn't enough light for Arya to see her blush. She'd have to be more careful with her words in the future.

'Alright Arya, your trousers are pinned. Tomorrow I will tighten the waist for you, but I am tired and must sleep."

"Oh please finish the waist Sansa!"

"Tomorrow dear sister," Sansa insisted, "tonight I need rest." She put her sewing kit in her desk drawer as a sign of finality. No more alterations would be done that night.

"Alright, tomorrow," Arya agreed reluctantly. She tip toed her way back to her room, and Sansa began to undress. She changed into her nightgown, the silver hairpin being the last thing she took out of her hair. She carefully placed it back in the small box it came in. She turned off the light and slipped between the sheets. She closed her eyes hoping for a dreamless, uncomplicated sleep.


	6. Chapter 6

**Hi everyone! Thank you for the reviews! goodness I did not expect such a response to this story but I am so very greatful for it! this is a short chapter, but an important one, so here it is :) here are some time period notes:**

 **Boxing Day- the day after Christmas meant for the staff and servants of a house. They usually worked on Christmas preparing dinners and preparing rooms for guests, etc. Boxing day was when they got to stay home and celebrate with their own families.**

 **Willa Cather- a classic American writer. She wrote mostly tales about the Midwest. Her books** ** _O, Pioneers!, The Song of the Lark,_** **and** ** _My Antonia_** **were huge successes and very popular at the time of their publication in the 1910s, and if you ask my English teacher, she hinted at certain characters in her books (important to note these characters were lovable and accomplished women) as being lesbians. There is also lots of speculation and controversy in the literary world as to whether or not Willa Cather herself was a lesbian. Not important to the story but a fun fact all the same. Anyways, i digress.**

 **Scullery maid- a person on the kitchen staff whose responsibility was to wash dishes, posts, pans, etc.**

 **the way Sansa and Arya take the dishes down to the kitchen (which in the Elms is situated in the basement) is via a dumbwaiter which is basically a tiny elevator for dishes. the hot food would be taken up from the kitchen to the butler's pantry where the serving staff would then take the food into the breakfast room. when the meal was finished they sent the dirty dishes down the same way they came up.**

 **I hope you enjoy this newest installment, and I will try to get another chapter up soon if my life permits :) happy reading to you all! - FlamingRose**

Boxing Day, 1916 – Winterfell

Coffee and sweet rolls were waiting downstairs when the Stark men awoke: Benjen and Ned had risen early and arrived at the breakfast table just as Catelyn brought in the freshly brewed coffee.

"How will you manage without Septa today, Catelyn?" Benjen teased.

"I suspect the way I did when I was a girl and Mother insisted I learn to cook: a little clumsy at first, but successful in the end." She gave him a good-natured smile as she poured him a cup of coffee.

"I suspect the children will be late coming down today," Ned observed, "I could have sworn I heard Arya tip toeing through the halls last night."

"No doubt finding one of her siblings," Catelyn added, "probably disturbing Sansa for one reason or another."

"She's a rebel, that one," Benjen crowed proudly.

'Well, as promised Cat, we did not discuss business on Christmas, but now we must," said Ned.

"If you insist," answered Catelyn, "though I cannot promise I will contribute much to that conversation."

"That's quite alright."

"I hope to spend most of my free time today quietly in my room, reading."

"Reading?" Benjen repeated. Catelyn arched an eyebrow at him.

"Yes, Benjen Stark, reading. If Willa Cather can write a book, I am sure I can sit down to read one." The Stark brothers began laughing the moment they noticed the triumphant smile grace Catelyn's lips. She always had a quick wit, but laugh at a time she deemed inappropriate and you would have a difficult time redeeming yourself with dignity.

"Then we will be in the study," Ned said still chuckling, "We will give you peace and quiet. I cannot say the same for the children, however."

"The older ones can mind the younger ones," Benjen answered.

"Yes, but who will mind the older ones?" Ned challenged.

"Their good sense," Catelyn replied, "or at least, for the sake of my nerves, I hope it to be so." As the adults finished their breakfast, the children came rushing in to eat. As the children finished, Catelyn collected the plates from the table.

"Mother, Arya and I will wash the dishes," Sansa called as she rushed over, her sister in tow, "It's our Christmas gift to you." Catelyn's eyes watered. She had such considerate children.

"Thank you girls," she said, kissing them each, "the sweetest gift I could receive today." Arya and Sansa watched their mother leave before they carefully took all the plates down to the kitchen. Sansa put on one of the aprons that the scullery maids used, and Arya ran up to Sansa's room via the servant's stairs to retrieve the sewing kit and trousers. When she came back down she put the items on the table and put on the second apron to help Sansa wash the dishes. She grabbed a towel to begin drying and racking the plates and cups.

"Why is it we have to cook and clean, but the boys don't?" Arya asked.

"They do other things," Sansa answered, "they'll learn how to run a business someday."

"It doesn't seem very fair."

"I suppose," Sansa pondered, "but then again, not much is fair in life." She thought of Jon then, and how she had both parents while he had none.

"We should hurry with this so we can fix my trousers. Then I'll be able to do everything the boys can. Better, too."

"I have no doubt you will," Sansa chuckled. Arya already gave the boys a run for their money. With a pair of trousers in her trunk or on her person, she would be unstoppable. Once the dishes were washed, dried, and put away, Arya slipped into the trousers and Sansa set to work. It was Boxing Day, so the staff would not be in the house today, and the adults were all enjoying their quiet mornings either in their rooms or the library. The boys wouldn't likely come down to the kitchens, but there was really no guarantee. Therefore, in order to keep the trousers a secret, Sansa worked diligently and without pause or conversation until the very end.

"Alright Arya, once I make these adjustments, you can have your trousers." Arya jumped up and down with excitement.

"Oh , thank you Sansa!" she exclaimed as she hugged her sister tight, "I'll take such good care of them!"

"You're welcome. I'll make sure to finish them today in my room."

"Can I sit with you until they are finished? Please?"

"I don't see why not." The girls spent the day in front of the fire in Sansa's room. Arya read aloud from one of Sansa's books as Sansa sewed. With her quick and practiced hand, Sansa finished the trousers just before lunch. The girls came down before everyone else, so Arya took the advantage of having Sansa alone to ask her the questions that had been festering in her head since the Lannister ball.

"What's going on with you lately?"

"Nothing," Sansa answered coolly.

'That's a lie if I ever heard one," Arya countered, "come one Sansa, you can tell me. You've told Jon, you can tell me, whatever the secret might be."

"I haven't told Jon anything!" Sansa assured her. To most it sounded true, but Arya noticed it to be a bit too quick of a denial.

"So Jon has told _you_ something?" Arya felt a pang of jealousy. What would Jon tell Sansa that he wouldn't tell her?

"No," Sansa said, reading the hurt on her sister's face, "If Jon had a secret you'd know it before I did. We've just—grown to understand each other a little better. Jon and I have never been close."

"That's why it's so odd the way you've been lately."

"I know. Believe me. I find it odd myself. But I'm glad I get the chance to know him now."

"By the looks of it you know each other real well. Not everyone can communicate in only glances."

"We don't do that!"

"Last night at dinner you did." Arya couldn't believe her eyes, but it was clear as day on her sister's face. Sansa was blushing. Sansa didn't blush. Not since June. How odd to see her blush now when talking about Jon. Arya was starting to piece things together. She was starting to understand the looks, their sudden rapport, but it was all speculation. She had to make sure. Before she could ask anymore questions Robb and Jon came into the room. Sansa looked up and froze, stiff and wide eyed as the topic of conversation stood in front of her.

"Sansa, Arya, good afternoon," Jon said, oddly formal in his address, "I seem to have interrupted something. My apologies." Arya and Robb watched the exchange between Jon and Sansa. There was a curious distance in Jon's manner, and Arya was having trouble understanding where it came from when just last night he'd been so warm towards her sister.

"Don't be silly," Sansa replied, "please, join us for lunch." Arya marveled at her sister's ability to recover herself so quickly.

"Perhaps I will come in for lunch at a later time," Jon answered, "but thank you for the invitation. I should really hang up my clothes. I've been in the snow, and they need a chance to dry." Without another moment, Jon exited the room quickly just as Bran and Rickon ran inside to take their seats at the table. Sansa was behaving as if the tension filled moment never even happened. She was so convincing Arya wondered if she hadn't imagined the whole thing, and she probably would have convinced herself of just that had she not caught her sister looking off in the direction Jon left for a second more than what would be considered normal. Arya wanted so badly to ask Sansa more questions, but it seemed that if she were to ask anyone anything, it would be Jon. He was the one acting strangely now. But the questions would have to wait. She had to find a good spot in her trunk to hide her trousers, and she wanted to try her bow again before going back to the city. They would all be on the train back to parties and business and society gossip in the next few days. They wouldn't return to Winterfell till the summer. Jon, Robb, and Bran would soon be back at school, and soon Arya and Sansa would resume their studies at home. Plus, they all had to withstand the New Year's party at the Tyrell house. It was sure to be another lavish affair. Not as lavish as the Lannister party, but what it did not have in opulence it would make up for in elegance. Arya could do without the lavish affairs, but as Sansa said, they had to keep up appearances. She'd rather not, but if it was important to her family, she would suffer through it. She excused herself from the table and took her time going up the stairs to her room. It would be a while before she saw these halls again.


	7. Chapter 7

**Hello wonderful friends! Here is a lengthy chapter for you. I hope it makes up for the painfully short one from before. I don't have much to tell you on this one so enjoy! - FlamingRose**

December 31, 1916, The Tyrell House

Ned Stark stifled a yawn, a bit unsuccessfully, and received an elbow to the side from his wife.

"Ned, I am in such good spirits tonight I will not have you ruin them by dozing off against this wall."

"Sorry, my love. Robb, Jon, and I had a long trek this morning to get home in time to ready ourselves for this." As promised, Ned took his son and nephew hunting. It was the last few days of the waterfowl season, and he didn't want to put it off to next year. If this year had taught him anything, it was that you never knew how much time you had.

"He's brooding again," Benjen murmured to his brother. Ned followed his gaze to Jon standing against the wall, Robb keeping him company.

"He's always brooded before," Ned pointed out.

"Yes, but he was getting a lift in his spirits lately. I was hoping…oh I don't know…" Ned knew what Benjen was hoping, but he wouldn't dare say it in front of Catelyn. Ned wasn't completely against the idea of such a young man as Jon pursuing his daughter. He was brave, and gentle and strong. He could not ask for a better match, but Catelyn was a little more concerned with social propriety than he was. She knew the whispers that would follow her daughter the way they followed Jon.

"Sansa also seems to have been a bit out of sorts lately," Ned mentioned cautiously.

"It's for the best," Catelyn assured him. She comfortingly touched his arm with a look. He wondered if she truly believed that.

Ned had heard the whispers at the Lannisters. Jon was dancing with the finest, most eligible young women at the ball, and with every one, Sansa included, there were disapproving glances from the other old families. Really, they could be such snobs. They called him a son of a clerk as if it was a dirty word, as if their grandfathers and great grandfathers weren't once clerks who rose above all obstacles to create the lives of luxury and wealth they so mindlessly enjoyed now. He watched his nephew lean against the wall looking about awkwardly, not daring to dance with anyone tonight. It saddened him to know such whispers were not far from his mind.

Jon leaned against the wall, Robb keeping him company. He missed the woods. He missed being there with Uncle Ned and Robb with only the trees to hear their conversations. He wanted so badly to be back there. The woods were quiet and cold; there were no whispers, expectations, or social norms . Just nature. Just peace. Now he was back in the city, struggling to socialize at the Tyrell New Year's Eve party. At least it was a more hospitable atmosphere than the Lannisters. Jon fiddled with his necktie, hoping no one looked at him. He'd drawn too much attention at the Christmas ball. He wouldn't make the same mistake tonight.

Arya joined her brother and cousin on the wall. She was dressed in a dark brown dress that had small beads dangling from the edge of her necklines. Sansa had helped Arya select it for the occasion.

"Margery Tyrell would like to know when you plan on dancing with her this evening. She was quite taken with you at the Lannister party. We all were." Arya batted her eyelashes at Jon and cracked her mischievous grin when he groaned, his face contorting into a grimace.

'That's what happens when you decide to dance, Jon," Robb said with a nudge, "you did this to yourself when you danced with my sister."

"And then danced with all of her friends," Arya added.

"I was just trying to do right by Sansa," Jon lamented, "I didn't want to become a hot commodity." He was sure the mothers of all of those girls were as upset as he was about this new development. He was catching a couple of disapproving looks tonight.

"Ah, but you are now. You don't want to keep the ladies waiting," Robb teased. Jon's discomfort was amusing to Robb. Most men would jump at the chance of being in his cousin's position. Theon, for example, would love nothing better than being wanted by every woman in the room. Robb looked across the room to where Margery and Myrcella sat speaking together. Margery looked up towards the two young men on the wall, glancing at Jon before meeting Robb's eyes. She stared at him daringly, almost as a challenge. He looked right back and could've sworn there was a tinge of a smile forming on her lips.

"Don't worry cousin," Robb addressed Jon, Never taking his eyes off Margery, "I'll save your hide this night." Jon watched as Robb confidently made his way to Margery Tyrell who graciously accepted his invitation to dance.

"Thank God," Jon exhaled.

"If you are up to playing hero, Joffrey seems to have set his tormenting on Ros this night. Or are your heroics reserved only for my sister?" Arya inquired.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"I'm sure you do," Arya countered, "I'm not saying I'm not grateful for how you interfered at the Lannister ball, I am, but since then you and Sansa have been very odd with each other. And since Christmas you've been even odder."

"I'm not odd," Jon retorted, not liking where Arya was taking the conversation.

"Jon! Your behavior is bordering on bizarre!" Arya cried, "First with glances and gazes, walks in the snow—"

"Keep your voice down!"

"Private conversations in the corner of the parlor," Arya continued softly but fiercely, "then come boxing day, you never allowed yourself to even look at my sister. That, I'm afraid, falls under the title of odd behavior." Jon started walking away from Arya. He needed fresh air. His best bet was the balcony. He made his way there hoping the chill of the night air would inspire Arya to go inside and to leave him alone. Jon had no such luck. Arya followed him outside despite the weather. Her teeth chattered and her shoulders were in a permanent shrug against the cold, but she powered on.

"There is something going on between you and my sister and I want to know what it is."

"There is nothing going on!" Jon was careful to keep his voice down. They were alone on the balcony, and on one else was anywhere to be seen unless they were inside where music and conversation drowned out the noises from the outside world. Still, Jon was careful. This conversation was a dangerous one to have in public.

"Jon," Arya said softly, "you can trust me." Jon turned to look at his cousin and sighed when he saw her pained expression. In keeping his feelings to himself he had hurt her. He didn't mean to, just like he didn't mean to hurt Sansa, though by the looks she gave him lately he knew by avoiding her he had. He just didn't know what else to do. He had to keep his distance after what happened in the parlor that Christmas night. He looked at Arya standing in front of him hoping to connect. He had been alone with these thoughts for a while. It would be nice to share them with someone. If he could trust anyone, he could trust Arya.

"There's nothing—exactly—going on between me and your sister."

"Exactly?"

"I don't really know how to explain."

'The glances, the walks, the…tension?"

"Yes…" Jon replied, "I don't know how it happened, honest. It was gradual and then all at once, which doesn't make much sense, I know…"

"Jon, do you have feelings for Sansa?"

"I can't, I shouldn't. She's Sansa Stark, a young woman of good parentage and daughter of high society, and I'm—"

"Jon Stark, son of Benjen Stark. Benjen Stark: a well-respected citizen and pillar of the community."

"I am Jon Snow to this world. Orphan, son of a lowly clerk, nothing more than Benjen's ward, a great act of philanthropy…I'm not for her. She deserves someone kind, gentle, strong, a man of high standing and good moral fiber. I know Benjen insists everyone treats me as if I belong here, but I get the looks and I hear the whispers…Sansa deserves more than that."

"But do you have feelings for her, Jon?"

"Yes."

The word hung in the air. His admittance scared him. Now it was out. He couldn't take it back, even if he wanted to. He imagined trying to grab the words from the air to hide them away in his pockets. Even if he could, Arya would never allow it. She always kept him honest.

"Then forget the whispers. Forget all of it! You are more than whispers, Jon. You are a Stark. You are part of this world and you are part of this family, like it or not, and screw anyone who says otherwise! Even you." Jon stared, slack jawed at Arya. He wasn't sure what he expected, but it wasn't such a fervent confrontation. Arya took his stunned silence as an opportunity to continue.

"Now my sister is a lot of things, some good, some bad, and I don't always what to make of it all, but I do know that she deserves to be happy, and because you are afraid of your feelings and keep avoiding her, she isn't happy. I'm not saying you have to confess your love to her, but you have to speak to her. You can't give her the cold shoulder now. Stop being an idiot, Jon. Go find my sister and make things right."

"You're right," Jon said, slowly recovering from Arya's unanticipated but wise words, "I have to fix things…Arya?"

"yes?"

"You can't tell anyone. Not a soul. Not Sansa, and not even Robb—especially not Robb."

"But—"

"I mean it. I don't know what your sister's feelings are towards me, but I won't be the reason for her discomfort."

"Okay, I won't, but I think she likes you."

"I want her to think it Arya. No one can decide that but her, and I wouldn't have it any other way. I don't want her to spare my feelings. She must come to the conclusion on her own. And as far as Robb is concerned, he should hear it from me. When I'm ready." Arya knew Jon was right. He made a solid case, but she hated secrets. She liked things being put out in the open. It made things simpler.

"So you'll talk to Sansa?" Arya asked.

"Not yet. First, I have to rescue Ros," he replied. Arya broke into a smile.

"I'll lead you to her," she said as they walked back inside.

* * *

Margery was gorgeous in her gold gown. It was accented by rose colored bead work along the sleeve cuffs and seams and waistline of the dress. Intricate embroidery of roses along the skirt caught the light and glittered as she turned about the room led expertly by Robb Stark. Together they were magnetizing. It was hard to look away from such an aesthetically pleasing couple. Sansa admired the dancing couples, especially her brother and Margery. She was lamenting the fact she had been too late in interfering with Joffrey asking Ros to dance. The girl was in a beautiful plum gown, but her face did not match her radiant dress. Instead it was frozen in place, trying not to give way to the fear she felt. Joffrey had ended the dance and escorted her to a corner of the room where he kept a possessive hand on her as he spoke in her ear. Sansa wished she could go to the girl's rescue, but Cersei had been speaking to her for the last three songs about how she wished her son would turn his attentions to a more intelligent, more graceful creature—not someone so awkward as Ros.

"Really, a girl like Ros coming from brand new wealth should set her sights on someone more relatable."

"Relatable?" Sansa asked, the word grasping her attention.

"Yes. Someone who is part of her world, or perhaps one who is not part of ours. New money doesn't understand the nuances of high bred society like us. We have generations of understanding is all. It must be a lot to keep up with." Cersei sounded sympathetic, but sansa had a hard time believing her sincere. Still, she did her best to play the part of the agreeable partner in conversation.

"Ah, see that is an appropriate pairing," Cersei continued, her eyes fixed on Ros. Sansa followed her gaze. She watched as Jon politely interrupted to ask Ros to dance. Ros eagerly accepted, visibly relieved at the chance to escape.

"Ros and Jon, Ma'am?" Sansa asked.

"Why, yes. They are appropriately matched. Awkward in high society, only invited because of who they know," Cersei said, her voice dripping with disdain, "though Ros…even if her family isn't as established, Ros still comes from money. I guess not the _ideal_ match."

"I'm afraid I don't follow," Sansa replied cautiously. She tried her best to remain calm and agreeable, but she didn't like the sound of what Cersei was saying.

"My dear, surely you understand," Cersei said, "your dear cousin—as your family generously calls him—may have your Uncle's last name, but at the end of it all he has no fortune of his own, no name, no family history. Frankly, Ros would be marrying far beneath her if she chose your uncle's ward as a husband."

"Jon," Sansa said through her teeth.

"Excuse me?" Cersei inquired over the rim of her wine glass.

"My Uncle's son is named Jon," Sansa clarified boldly.

"Yes," Cersei drawled, "of course."

"And he has the fortune, name, and history of the Starks."

"I'm sure," Cersei said flatly as she took another sip of her wine, "now that is a handsome couple," she continued, nodding towards Margery and Robb, "Now a Tyrell would be an appropriate match for my Joffrey. Good connections, well-bred family…" Cersei prattled on about Margery's prospects, but Sansa was having trouble being attentive and engaged in the conversation. Her eyes kept straying towards the knight in soot covered armor who had just rescued yet another woman from Joffrey's clutches, even if just for a few moments. She tried her best not to be so obvious as she was in the presence of Cersei Lannister, and any sign of weakness was something she would be sure to notice. This particular weakness Sansa had for Jon was sure to add to the whispers of high society. Not everyone was as sensible as her family. Even after all these years, some still looked at Jon as one of Uncle Benjen's projects, not as his family. He'd always be a son of a clerk to them. Sansa having eyes for Jon would be the catalyst for many whispers about her family. She didn't care about herself, but she didn't want her family to suffer.

"He _is_ handsome," Cersei said.

"Who?"

"Your uncle's ward," she said with a catlike smile and a quirk of an eyebrow, "there's no harm in looking, child. I enjoy the view of some stable hands and servants myself from time to time. There's no harm in having a look." Cersei's tone angered Sansa, but she kept her voice even when she repied, "I was just admiring Ros' dress. The cut is very flattering on her."

"Oh, yes, I suppose it is," Cersei replied knowingly. It was at this time that Arya approached them. Sansa wasn't sure if there was even a time she was so glad to see her sister.

"Excuse me," Arya said with perfect politeness, "may I please steal my sister? Our mother has asked for her."

"Of course dear girl," Cersei answered, "how is your mother? Poor thing…a sister stranded across the ocean cannot be easy for her."

"she is doing much better now, thank you for asking," Sansa replied quickly before Arya had a chance to say something she might regret. The girls left Cersei to go in search of their mother. Once she was sure Cersei wasn't looking, Arya pulled Sansa into a different room and found them a place at the window in the receiving parlor.

"Where's mother?" Sansa asked.

"I don't know. I just said that so you'd have an excuse to leave Cersei. I know you don't like her."

"I never said that."

"Fine, I don't like her. But I have noticed you to be quite tense around her. I thought I'd help you—come to your rescue." Arya grinned mischievously.

"well, thank you Arya. I will admit I was a little tense. I did not like our topic of conversation." Arya gave her sister an inquiring look."

"Social class," Sansa clarified, "basically more proof that…Cersei Lannister is a snob." She finished in a hushed tone. Arya's eyebrows shot up in surprise. Being so frank within the safe walls of Winterfell was one thing, but Sansa never spoke so boldly or slanderously in public where anyone could hear. Whatever Cersei said must have upset her enough to forget herself.

"I'm sorry it was so unpleasant," Arya sympathized.

"It's fine. I just want to go home, really. I like the Tyrells, and they've done a marvelous job this year, but I seem to be exhausted."

'We can tell mother," Arya offered, "we can go home."

"No," Sansa answered, "mother is actually enjoying herself tonight. She and father danced at least twice that I saw, and she's been smiling. I don't want to make her leave before midnight."

"Alright, but if you change your mind—"

"I'll let you know. Thank you, Arya." Arya kept her sister company in the parlor. There were very few people there, and as the band struck up for a foxtrot, the few people left in the parlor hurried to the dance floor in the other room; all except the Stark sisters. As the band played, Jon made his way past the throngs of people in search of Sansa. Ros was a bit of a clumsy dancer, but only because she was so nervous. Jon felt awkward with her, but she was very grateful and let him know time and time again how thankful she was. When the dance was done, he thanked her for the dance and left her with Myrcella before searching the room for a girl in a light purple dress and dark blue sash that matched her hairpin of silver and sapphires. She was nowhere to be found. He made his wayto the parlor and saw her sitting with her sister by one of the windows.

Sansa saw him standing there in the middle of the room frozen in place. He was looking at her intently—as if asking for permission to approach her. It was a request she would not refuse him.

"Jon," she said. Arya turned to look at Jon, then at Sansa, then back at Jon. Her observations went completely unnoticed by the observed.

"I better find Bran. Or Robb. Myrcella. And Ros," Arya stumbled, "I'll go." She hurriedly made her way out of the parlor. Jon and Sansa were alone again.

As much as he wanted to go to her, he didn't dare move. If he was going to say anything, he decided he should keep his distance. Sansa stayed sitting. She wasn't sure she should stand. She didn't trust her legs not to take her to Jon, bridging the distance that had developed since Boxing day. She was sure he had his reasons. She didn't want to disrespect them.

"Sansa," Jon began. He was having trouble saying the words.

"Yes?" she encouraged, her eyes hopeful. There was the hope again. He had to be brave, if only to preserve that hope. He couldn't disappoint her.

"I'm so sorry for how distant I've been. It wasn't fair to you."

"no it wasn't," Sansa agreed.

"I just didn't know what else to do really. Our situation is—peculiar."

"I understand," Sansa conceded. She admitted none of this was particularly simple or easy to navigate. Jon—as always—was trying to do right by her. Sometimes in moments of frustration and selfishness, she wished he wouldn't be so concerned with his duty or her honor, but she knew that if that were the case, part of his appeal would be gone. Jon is Jon, and she liked all of what that entailed. Whatever she didn't like, she'd accept anyways. It was a part of him, and she wanted him whole.

'Would you like to sit down?" Jon's frozen frame thawed at her words.

"yes, thank you," he said, already moving to sit beside her.

"What do I need protecting from Jon?" Sansa asked quietly.

"I'm sorry?"

"It's in your nature to protect," she replied, "I always find that is your motive for the things you do that I don't understand, so what is it you are trying to protect me from by being distant?" His eyes darkened a bit. The brooder she'd seen lately made his return. She saw him start to slip into himself.

"I didn't want to subject you to the whispers. I'm used to it, but I don't want that to be the case for you."

"You are more than whispers, Jon."

"That's what Arya said," he said with a small smile.

"Arya is right," Sansa said. She could tell he didn't believe her.

"I need you to know something, Jon," Sansa said carefully. He was always trying to protect her, always trying to make things better. She had to try to do the same for him.

'what is it?" he asked.

"You can't believe the whispers—about you." He still hadn't looked at her. He was looking down at his folded hands.

"They're right, though," he replied dully, still looking at his hands. She scooted over to clasp her hand on his shoulder, only the fabric of their clothes separated them she sat so close, but she didn't care. She couldn't have him disconnect now. She wasn't going to let him keep believing in some arbitrary classist hierarchy built out of the insecurities of a few elite.

"No, they're not," she insisted, "you are deserving of the name Stark. You belong. You're brave, gentle, and strong. Uncle Benjen sees it, and Father and anyone who has spoken to you for more than a minute can see it." He still hadn't looked at her. She felt the moisture come to her eyes. The distance was threatening to come between them again. She couldn't lose him, not when she'd just gotten him back. She could hear people in the next room start counting down to midnight.

"Why can't you see what I see?" she asked him, her voice breaking. It was that change in her voice that prompted Jon to finally move. When he looked at her, and placed his hand on top of hers, clasping it between his hand and his shoulders she could no longer keep the tears in her eyes. They dampened her lashes and fell onto his hand as she dropped her forehead on his hand. She couldn't help but cry in relief. She felt him kiss the top of her head and lean against her as the ballroom erupted into cheers of happy New Year. The band began to play, and the people sang. Alone in the dark, quiet parlor, Sansa closed her eyes as she felt the vibrations of Jon's voice as he hummed along to "Auld Lang Syne." She wished the moment would last forever.

As the song came to an end, they separated, and Jon fished a handkerchief out of his pocket to give to Sansa.

'Thank you, Jon," she said as she dabbed at her yes, wiping the tears away, "I don't know what came over me. I'm not always so emotional. I must be tired." They were back to sitting on opposite ends of the seat. Arya came into the parlor just then to find Sansa. She saw her sister was crying, but she also saw her smiling. She figured it was a good sign even with the presence of tears.

She promptly made her way to her and sat between them, taking Sansa's hand in hers. Shortly after, groups of two or three started to trickle into the parlor, and Jon made a mental note to himself that Arya was becoming more and more clever, astute, and stealthy with every passing day. No one would look twice at two sisters sitting with their cousin.

"I told mother you wanted to go home. She says it's fine if you do. We are all to go home with Jon and Uncle Benjen. Mother, Father, and Robb are staying here a little longer."

"Mother and Father should stay," Sansa said handing the handkerchief back to Jon, "I haven't seen either of them so carefree since before May."

"I think Margery may have played a part in the arrangements," Arya said with her signature smile, "She and Robb danced twice in a row. And they looked particularly familiar during "Auld Lang Syne""

"I wonder how serious it is."

"You can never tell with Robb," Jon commented, "at least I can't."

"Margery is her own enigma," Sansa added as she stood, "it may only for the night, or it may be forever." Arya and Jon followed suit, and after saying their goodbyes, Jon, Sansa, Arya, and Bran followed Uncle Benjen out to the circle drive.

On the way to the Stark house, Sansa drifted to sleep despite her best efforts to stay awake, and Jon could not help but steal glances at her from time to time. How extraordinary she was. And the fact she saw so much in him…it was more than he could ever hope for. He wasn't entirely sure it wasn't a dream. They came to the house, and Jon and Benjen escorted the younger Starks to the door. Old nana opened the door to usher them inside, and warned everyone to be careful not to wake Rickon. Jon smiled as he caught Sansa's eye before she disappeared behind the door. He closed his eyes for a moment before following Benjen back to the vehicle. The cold air surrounded him, reminding him he was alive. He wanted to remember what this felt like. As long as she looked at him like that, he could take on the world.


	8. Chapter 8

April 6th, 1917, The Stark House

The months after the Tyrell's New Years Eve party were uneventful and much less lively. Jon, Robb, and Bran went back to school, and that left Sansa, Arya, and Rickon to entertain themselves. There were fewer parties, and because of the dreary weather no one made any attempt for an impromptu tea or trip to the country. In March, Sansa celebrated her 17th birthday with her closest family and friends, and even received three lengthy letters from Bran, Robb, and Jon. Out of the gifts she received, those three letters were the best. Aside from that, there were no parties, and for that the Starks, all of them, were grateful.

Arya struggled through her lessons, but when Old Nan decided she could write to her brothers to practice her manuscript, she became much more enthusiastic. She eagerly went through her French lessons and History lessons to finally get to the couple hours she was allowed to write to Robb, Bran, and Jon. Sansa would ask her to send her regards, and from time to time Sansa would sit with Arya to write her own letter to Jon, which Arya would then tuck into her letter to Jon. These letters were few, however. Since Sansa completed finishing school she had even more responsibility. Her mother was relentless in grooming her for marriage and teaching her all she had to know in order to run a household: correspondence, balancing the checkbook, organizing and planning events. Apparently, managing Winterfell was a whole different challenge all on its own. Sansa's head spun some days with numbers and figures. She was lucky if she got even a few minutes to sit down to embroider. The way her mother fussed sometimes made Sansa nervous. She was just seventeen, but soon she would be expected to marry. She would move away from home, possibly into a brownstone house, maybe even a different city, a new wait staff with which she had no rapport, and a husband that she would have to serve and please. Maybe a few years ago it would have been dreams come true, but now the whole thing sounded terrifying. She was grateful she still had some time before she was expected to settle down, at least two years or so, but once she was eighteen suitors would start coming to the door, and she was expected to choose one. It all sounded so strange to her. She was glad she was still young enough for that not to matter.

This morning, Sansa hoped by getting up early and eating breakfast quickly she would have a bit of time before her lessons to do a bit of embroidering on a piece she hadn't touched since before Christmas. When she arrived downstairs she encountered very somber pair. Her mother had one hand over her mouth and the other was holding her father's hand. Her father was watching her mother intently. The morning paper was unfolded on the table.

"Mother?" Catelyn didn't seem to hear her daughter. She was somewhere far away. Ned squeezed her hand to bring her back to earth.

"Sansa dear," Catelyn said distractedly, "no lessons today. Excuse me." She got up from her seat and left the room. Sansa then looked at the newspaper on the table. Even upside down it was hard to miss the headline: U.S. Declares War on Germany. The dreaded war that took away her uncle was now making its way here to threaten lives closer to home. Her poor mother.

"So what does this mean for us?" Sansa asked her father indicating the paper.

"I don't know, love. We will see, I suppose." Sansa had never seen her father look so old or so tired.

"Will Uncle Benjen be returning to the military?"

"No, dear child. He will continue his work here. He no longer lives for himself. He has responsibilities now, and they are here on this side of the ocean."

"What of Robb and Jon?" Sansa heard herself asking, "do they plan to enlist?"

"I don't know." Sansa met her father's eyes. Somehow they both knew what Robb would decide. Robb would fight, and Sansa knew if anyone would follow Robb into the fray, it would be Jon. A tingling crawled up the back of Sansa's neck. She needed to sit down. She looked down at her charcoal grey frock. A few shades darker and she would be in mourning. How fortuitous.

"It's going to be alright. Robb may decide to stay here. He may not enlist." Sansa knew it was a pretty lie, something to make them both feel better. She tried to smile, but the smile wouldn't come.

For breakfast, she nibbled on some toast to appease her father. He didn't need to worry about her on top of Mother, Robb, and Jon. She opted for an herbal tea at breakfast which Old Nan supplied for her, giving her comforting words as she did. She spent the rest of the morning in her room. The embroidery she had been so excited to work on lay untouched on the seat next to her. She alternated between staring at it and staring at the empty fireplace. The world was at war, and soon Jon and Robb would be gone. They would be off to fight, and she would be here, waiting wondering. And Mother would be here, waiting, wondering. And Father and Uncle Benjen…Jon was the closest thing to a son Uncle Benjen had. What kind of toll would it take on him if he lost Jon to war?

When lunch came around, her mother knocked on her door.

"Come in," Sansa called. Catelyn entered to see her daughter staring at the unlit fireplace with a vacant expression, her embroidery abandoned.

"It's time for lunch, my sweet." Sansa looked at her mother's face. She'd been crying. Sansa wished she could cry. She'd been waiting for the tears to come. They never did.

"I'm not hungry," she stated, turning her vacant gaze back to the fireplace.

"You have to eat," Catelyn gently urged.

"I'll come down for tea," Sansa said, and idea coming to her, "but I have something I must do first."

"Alright. I'll tell Nan to put out some cucumber sandwiches to the side for you and some tea. Come down when you're ready." Sansa barely heard her mother close the door. She was busy rummaging through her desk drawer for some stationary. As she found it, she settled at her desk and began to write. Her letters weren't perfect due to how frantically she scribbled, but she figured Jon would forgive her that one shortcoming in her penmanship. She just needed him to see the earnestness of her message: Don't go. She pleaded for pages, giving him reason after reason why he couldn't go: Arya, Bran, Rickon, Uncle Benjen, and his education, anything she could think of that might convince him to stay. Robb had Mother and Father, and all of his siblings to think of, and as of New Year's Eve, Margery. Aside from Uncle Benjen, a military man at heart, Jon had no one to remind him of what he was leaving behind. So Sansa wrote. It was a long shot, but the hopeful promise of _maybe_ kept her writing and prompted her to put it in an envelope and send it out with the day's mail.

After sending out the letter, she felt better. Her appetite hadn't fully returned, but she managed to eat a couple of cucumber sandwiches, and the warm tea settled her nerves a bit. She was on her second cup when Arya came into the room.

"Mother said you weren't feeling well this morning."

"I wasn't," Sansa assented.

'How are you feeling now?"

"Better, thank you." Arya came to sit next to her sister. She took a cheese biscuit off the plate and snapped it in half. She popped one half into her mouth offering the other half to Sansa. Sansa declined the offer. She wondered how Arya could have an appetite on a day like this. She admired the ability.

"Are you worried, Sansa?" Arya asked before starting on the other half of the biscuit.

"Yes," she answered gravely.

"It'll be alright. Robb and Jon are smart."

"We don't know that. War doesn't discriminate based on intelligence. It takes all kinds. It takes them and never gives them back." She thought of Aunt Lysa. Was this the dread she felt when her husband went to war? Sans imagined what it must have felt like when those men came to the door in their starched uniforms confirming her worst fears. It must have been unbearable.

Arya noticed the tremor in her sister's voice. She didn't know what she could say or do to remedy. She was right. War didn't discriminate. Everyone suffered in times of war, and she knew her sister would inevitably suffer, too. She hated the feeling of helplessness she felt now. She wished she could do something. Instead they both sat in silence, Sansa sipping tea from her cup.

Dinner was quiet that evening. The evening paper brought more news on the war. April 6th, 1917 was a day that would live in infamy. At least, that's what the papers said. The whole country was abuzz, but the Stark house was eerily silent. Only Rickon had things to say, and even so, not many things. Arya began to wonder if any of them would speak again. War was here, and it's first casualty was their voices.


	9. Chapter 9

**Readers! So sorry to be so late on my updates! work is insane but finally over, and the holidays are crazy, but I finally finished my Christmas shopping so i have more time to devote to this story! especially during the winter break :) I have stayed fairly true to form and true to the period (1910s) but I will soon start deviating from the norms of the 1910s. there will be some things that are plausible, but not likely in history. that being said, it's fiction! i want to have my fun. I will be updating again soon. until then, much love!**

 **-FlamingRose**

April 16th, 1917

"I wish we were back at Winterfell," Arya said. She had been reading to Sansa aloud from one of her own books while Sansa embroidered. She chose to read _Peter Pan_ to Sansa the night of April 6th in an attempt to help Sansa sleep. Now, they were both wrapped up in the story—Rickon, too. Rickon loved the adventure of it all, and for the girls it was a temporary escape from the reality of the last ten days.

Two days ago they received word from Robb. He and Jon were enlisting. Theon Greyjoy also planned to enlist. Even though Robb mentioned it in his letter, and they got word from Uncle Benjen, Jon had taken the time to write a letter to Sansa himself explaining his decision. Sansa's letter, though earnest and heartfelt, had done nothing to persuade Jon to stay. If anything it steeled Jon's resolve. _It's because of these things, the things so worth living for, that I must risk my life,_ he'd written. _You said it's in my nature to protect, so I must protect those that I hold dear._ She could say nothing more. She hadn't the energy to write any more on the subject, but she knew it would not be the last time she breached the subject with him. She did not want him or her brother to leave.

"Me too, Arya," Sansa gently replied as she pulled her purple thread through the fabric, "but soon we will be."

"It won't be the same."

"I know. But at least we get some time with Jon and Robb before they leave." They made sure to speak quietly. Rickon had fallen asleep, and neither of them wanted to wake him.

"I'm scared," Arya whispered. Sansa barely heard it, but the look on Arya's face was enough to know she said it.

"I know," Sansa answered, "So am I." the evening light poured into the room, but now with the sun nearly set, it was quickly dimming. Soon, they would have to turn on the lamps in the room in order to continue their activities. Sansa watched her little brother as he slept. She was grateful that he was too young to fight. At that moment, her mother came in.

"Sansa, Arya, Margery is downstairs. She wishes to speak to both of you." Sansa and Arya exchanged curious glances. It was odd for Margery to come unannounced, and to come in the evening was also out of character. The girls promptly made their way downstairs. Whatever reason Margery had called with no notice and so late in the day, it had to be important.

Margery stood in the parlor, a lilac dress flattering her figure.

"Sansa, Arya, how good to see you both!" she kissed them each on the cheek before Sansa offered her a seat.

"So Margery, what's the news? Is anything the matter?"

"Oh! No. Well—not exactly. I wanted you both to know before I told anyone, and before Robb says anything."

"What?" Arya asked eagerly.

"I'm leaving for France this summer," Margery said.

"France! In the middle of a war?" Sansa asked.

"Well, that's just it," Margery answered, "I'm joining the war overseas."

"You can't fight, though," Arya stated, "girls aren't allowed."

"No, but I can help. I've decided to offer my services as a nurse. There's a hospital in Virginia where I can receive training and experience, and they have room for me there. From there I will go to London, and then on to France." The Stark sisters were silent.

"I know this comes as a bit of a shock. I'm sure I'm the last person anyone expected to walk into the fray, but I want to help. These men are risking their lives. I want to try to preserve some of them. I know I can't save them all, but—"

"I think it's wonderful Margery," Arya said as she came to sit to the right of her on the floor.

"Really, Arya?"

"Yes. Scary, but wonderful."

"Scary and sudden," Sansa commented.

"I suppose it seems that way from the outside." Margery looked at her hands. She was silent a while. When she spoke again her voice was soft, but full of certainty.

"Robb told me he was joining the war the day after the papers came out with the news. He sent me a telegram. Silly of him really. Spending the money on that. It's as if he couldn't delay the news by writing a letter instead, it was that important. I made the choice then I would follow him there. I don't want him to face the war alone. I know he has Jon and Theon and others, but those hands will be trained to kill and to protect. What happens when one is wounded? They need hands that heal. I want to know he has that, and the only way to know for sure is to be those hands. He may not make it through this war. I want him to survive, but I know how dangerous war is. I've read the papers. I know the stories they've been telling. The odds are stacked against them. I want every possible second I can have with him."

"You really love him," Arya stated. It was no question. All three young women knew it to be true. Why else would you risk your life than for love? Margery nodded slowly.

"If I had any doubts before, I don't have them now. So Sansa," Margery addressed her, "what do you think?"

"I think," Sansa said slowly, "I think I will miss you terribly." She went to Margery's other side to hug her friend, holding her tight.

"Please be safe,' she said to her.

"I will do my very best," she answered earnestly, "and if any of our boys end up in my tent, I will do all in my power to ensure they walk out alive." Arya buried her head in the folds of Margery's dress as she hugged her tight. The three girls sat together, embracing each other and finding comfort in their shared melancholy. Sansa didn't want to let go. First Robb, Jon, and Theon, and now Margery. She was afraid she would be the only one left.


	10. Chapter 10

May 20th, 1917, Winterfell

It was the day the boys and Margery were to board a train and begin their journey. Everyone had tried their best to put on a brave face. The days leading up to this day had actually been full of laughter and smiles. Everyone did their best to celebrate and cherish their time to together. A ball had been held at Winterfell the night before. This morning, Sansa woke up to her feet still aching and the muscles in her legs and shoulders still sore from dancing so much. She was glad her mother decided to have the event. It was what everyone needed. One final distraction before their sons and daughters were gone. Sansa feared once they left, she'd never see them again.

"You're looking at me like you love me, Sansa Stark," Theon had teased. He was always making light of situations, teasing her and flirting with every girl he turned about the dancefloor. She laughed it off, but she wondered if saying she did would make a difference in Theon—or any of them for that matter—getting on the train bound for war. She got up from her bed and stared to wash and dress herself. She selected a white dress with a light blue sash around the waist and lace on the bodice and hem. She put her hair in a braid and went downstairs. She was the last one to arrive at the breakfast table. No one spoke except Robb and Rickon. Sansa noticed her mother was not eating. Her father was glancing at her mother with a worried expression. Uncle Benjen spoke very little, but when he did, it was in murmurs only Jon or Ned could hear. Today, everyone looked older.

The train left at noon, so they had a couple hours to walk about Winterfell. The younger Stark children walked somberly with their brother and cousin. They couldn't help feeling the gravity of it all even though Robb was full of spirit, saying every nice thing he could about each of them, and of course mentioning Margery Tyrell at every opportunity that made sense. Sansa stole a glance at Jon, and for a moment she understood Margery's motives. Margery wanted every moment she could have with Robb, and every chance she could to make sure he was safe. Margery was brave, and Sansa admired her immensely for it. Margery was ready to face danger in a way Sansa didn't think she ever could. She wished she was more like Margery.

"Oh come on now!" Robb exclaimed, "smile!"

"Why should we smile?" Arya asked, "You're going off to war—what if something happens? You could be killed!" All of them stopped walking when Arya did. A tense silence came over the grounds as Arya's mention of death hit the air, freezing time. Robb faced his siblings. He had broad shoulders, a strong jawline, and eyes that looked right through you. Robb was handsome, whether he smiled or not, and he smiled frequently.

"I need you to smile so that it's the most recent memory I have of you, sister." His voice was gentle. It made Sansa want to cry. Instead, she smiled. If Robb held on to any memory of her, she hoped it was this one of her being brave and strong like him.

'Now who's going to race me to the beech tree?" he challenged. He ran off with his three youngest siblings close behind. Jon stopped when he noticed Sansa was standing still.

"Are you alright?" he asked. She could only shake her head. He walked back to stand in front of her. He gently held her at arm's length inspecting her. She wasn't trembling or unsteady that he could see. Her eyes were in focus.

"What's wrong?" Sansa did not answer.

"Are you feverish?" he asked as he put the back of his hand to her forehead and then her cheek. Her temperature seemed normal. When he put his hand to her cheek, she grabbed it and held it there, squeezing it tight.

"Please don't go," she said, "you, Robb, Theon, Margery…you don't have to go."

"Sansa…"

"You can all stay here."

"Sansa."

"You can all be at Winterfell and find some other way to support the war effort. We'll make blankets or hats or—"

"Sansa!" She let her thoughts retreat from her lips back to her mind. Jon continued, "We're going. We don't have to, but we chose to. We gave our word."

"But why?"

"We've been over this," Jon exhaled, frustrated.

"I don't want to lose any of you."

'You won't."

"You can't say that!"

"I—"

"No! Don't lie to me Jon! You don't know that. Any of you—all of you even—could die. You could go and never come back, and you know it!" Jon stayed quiet. She was right.

"I know. I'm sorry…but I have to go."

Sansa ducked her head in an attempt to hide the tears that threatened to spill out over her cheeks. She hated his sense of duty and honor. What good was your honor if you were dead? She was angry at Jon, and hurt that he was so stubborn and set on leaving, but most of all she was scared. They were alone with the white roses in the garden. Their parents had gone inside, and by now Arya, Bran, Rickon, and Robb were on the far side of the yard hidden amongst the tall and shading trees. Jon kissed her forehead tenderly letting himself linger a few seconds. Sansa closed her eyes to memorize the moment. It could be the last time he ever kissed her.

"Now let's join the rest of our family," Jon encouraged. They walked along the path to meet the other Starks and head back to the house. It was time to go to the station.

At the station, they all said their goodbyes to friends and family. Sansa hugged her brother tight, letting a few tears fall into his shirt.

"Now Sana, stay strong and take care of things for me," he said as he cupped her cheek in his hand, "you've got to make sure Father gets out every once in a while. Take him for a walk or something. You know how he gets stuck to his books." Sansa smiled and wondered at Robb. Only he could make her smile when she didn't want to and make her discover it was much better than her preferred alternative. This must have been why he and Jon were such good friends. Robb's smiles were infectious, even now.

"Of course I will," she replied. Next she said goodbye to Margery.

"I don't know what I'll do without you here," she said.

"I'll write to you, every step of the way. I promise." Margery said as she squeezed Sansa's hands.

Sansa at last bid farewell to Jon. She didn't say anything to him, or he to her. They stood looking at each other for a moment before Sansa closed the distance. She held him tight, feeling his warm body against her, and she didn't want to let go. She wouldn't let go.

"Sansa, people are watching," Jon warned her softly, but his arms remained strongly around her.

"I don't care," she answered. He held her tighter. She was glad for it. He was holding her together. She was sure when he let go she would fall to pieces on the platform.

"Come back to me," she whispered to him, her breath warming his skin.

"I will," he replied, and knew that to be a promise.

Sansa pulled away from him with great difficulty and watched them all disappear on the train. They sat in the windows: Theon, Robb, Jon, and Margery. Sansa watched as Robb took Margery's hand in his and brought it up to his lips. At least they had each other, she thought.

The Starks, Tyrells, and Greyjoys all stood on the platform long after the train was gone, staring after their loved ones. It wasn't real until now. Now, everyone had holes in their family that could only be repaired with peace.

Sansa looked at her own family, all of them finding comfort in each other. Sansa went to hug her mother. As she held her she looked over her mother's shoulder. She saw Uncle Benjen then, standing alone, staring at the place the train used to be.

'Mother, may I go back to the house with Uncle Benjen?"

"Yes, of course," she replied with a watery voice. The following months would be hard for her. At least Mother and father have each other, thought Sansa, who did Uncle Benjen have? Sansa approached her Uncle, but she wasn't sure what to do or say.

"Sansa," her uncle greeted her, "hello dear."

"Hello, Uncle. Could I accompany you back to the house?"

"Of course my dear, he said as he offered her his arm, "I would love the company." They walked a few steps behind the rest of the Starks.

"I'm glad you and Jon came to Winterfell last Christmas," she said, trying to start conversation.

"I'm glad we were invited. It was quite wonderful to have some peace. And I really appreciate how much of an effort you made to ensure Jon felt welcome."

"It was nothing," Sansa replied.

"On the contrary, my girl. It was something—you made him feel at home. That is not always easily achieved for Jon," Uncle Benjen paused before continuing, "he told me what you did for him Christmas morning at the church." Sansa felt her cheeks flush.

"Thank you, Sansa. Truly. You've been such a good influence on Jon these last months."

"I couldn't influence him to stay," she lamented.

"No one could," Benjen replied, "I think you know that. I know you have grown to care about him a good deal, Sansa, and I know you don't want to see him harmed. Neither do I. But I think that same reason is why he left. He feels that way about us, and that is why nothing we could have said would have made him stay."

'I know you're right," Sansa sighed, "I just don't like it."

"Can I tell you a secret?" Sansa nodded.

"Neither do I," he confided with a smile that Sansa could not help but return. Benjen was glad he could make his niece smile. It was a small smile, but it was there.


	11. Chapter 11

**Finally updated! I feel the need to say now is when things become less than accurate, but alas that is the beauty of fiction. first off, women were only allowed to assist the war effort directly by becoming nurses. A few were spies, but not many. women were not considered competent spies. Mata Hari is one of the better known World War 1 spies. I have other plans for Arya though ;)**

 **I hope you enjoy the next chapter :) - FlamingRose11**

October 21, 1917, London

The months went by in a blur. It seemed like just yesterday Jon was on the platform, watching the families stand there forlorn becoming smaller and smaller like islands. The memory of Sansa's red hair standing out against the blue sky was fresh in his mind. Her white day dress, its skirts ruffled by the breeze off the train. Since then, he and Robb and Theon had gone through extensive training. By August Margery completed her training at the hospital, and by September she was sent to France to assist the British forces. The fortnight before she left, she and Robb spent the days exchanging as many words and looks as they could full of meaning. They spent the nights exchanging kisses and touches full of the same meaning at every opportunity. Jon couldn't help but think how lucky they were—falling into this adventure together, both scared to death.

September drug on for Robb, it being the month he was separated from Margery, but October came and they were given their day of departure for London, then France.

"European girls," Theon mused as they got on the boat that morning, "I can't wait." Some of their contemporaries laughed and smiled knowingly, but not Jon. He didn't understand Theon's giddiness. There were plenty of beautiful girls back home, and less chance of death. Home…Jon missed home. He missed Winterfell every day of summer, and now he missed his Uncle's three story brownstone. He missed his parents, and for the first time since his father's death he wasn't there for his parent's anniversary. His nineteenth birthday had come and gone. The only one who remembered was Sansa. He didn't even remember it was his birthday until one day two weeks ago he received a letter from her with an embroidery swatch: a small black coarse fabric she obviously filched from Old Nan's scraps with silver roses and dark blue stiches that resembled tiny winking gems. He carried it in his left side pocket safely kept near his heart under a firmly fastened button.

Training was hard, but after leaving everything he knew and everyone he loved—aside from those who came with him—he knew physical struggles were something he could survive. Besides, physical struggles made much more sense. There was logic to the trials of the body that didn't exist when it came to the trials of the heart. He made sure to write home at least once a week. Usually he managed more. Even though his letters weren't long, he hoped they were enough to reassure Sansa that he was thinking of her. He didn't always write to Sansa directly, but if he didn't, he always made sure to include a couple of lines addressed to her when writing to Arya. Now they were on their way to France. He'd heard things about France. Aunt Catelyn had been there once with her sister Lysa before the war. She loved it. He wasn't sure he would. When Aunt Catelyn went she wasn't asked to enter into a field of kill or be killed.

"Just imagine—walking down the streets of Paris with a blonde haired girl," Theon mused. He let out a hearty laugh and clapped Jon on the shoulder. "You walk her to her apartment, she asks you to come up, naturally you say yes. She starts by teaching you French, and one thing leads to another…" Theon drifted off with a lustful smile on his face.

"Honestly Theon," Robb laughed, "aren't you ever going to try the one woman approach?"

"Like you did?"

"Yeah, I guess," Robb answered bashfully.

"Seriously, Robb. You used to be such a magnet for women. What happened?"

"Margery happened," Robb answered immediately.

"Margery. Really?"

"Really," Robb replied, "she's—she's everything I want. Why would I look anywhere else for what's right in front of me?" Theon continued his teasing, but Jon didn't catch any of what he was saying. Jon was in a world all his own. Robb's words had him thinking of Sansa. For the first time since leaving the station that summer, he regretted not staying home, not staying with her. He looked out over the expansive ocean. He closed his eyes to bring to mind her singing Christmas night. He remembered her in her blue dress and the hair pin gleaming in her read hair. He pictured her smiles and glances, even her tears. He looked on every moment with her fondly. He remembered her lips on his cheek Christmas night, and her arms tightening around him before he left. _Come back to me…_

"Jon," Robb brought him back to the present, "are you alright?" He looked about him, almost bewildered. There was no sign of Theon and the other soldiers who had decided to go to the other side of the deck.

'I'm fine. Sorry, I was just thinking."

"I can see that," Robb said teasing, "Quite a lot of thinking. Anything in particular? My sister perhaps? The one with the red hair?" Jon ducked his head, momentarily embarrassed.

"There were signs here and there but it all clicked at the platform," Robb continued, "Though I did have some help. Margery is much more astute than I am."

"I was going to tell you once I figured out how. I guess you beat me to it. I was afraid of how you might react to the news."

"Well, according to Margery, not well. I was definitely confused and a little angry. Mostly because I didn't understand it, but after a while I started to understand, and I started to like the idea."

"Really?"

"I rather it be you than someone like Joffrey," Robb replied.

"You're not giving me much by way of standards right now," Jon teased. Robb laughed along. It was unbridled and booming, almost drawing the attention of all the soldiers on deck.

"You're right, I apologize. The truth is, I can't think of anyone I trust more to keep my sister happy and safe. I mean, the fact you are with me on this boat instead of back home tells me you would do anything to keep her safe." Jon stayed quiet at Robb's remark, but he smiled slightly as he put his hand to his heart, right over the pocket that held the swatch Sansa made for him.

"Do you love her?" Robb asked. Jon let his hand drop to his side.

"I don't know," Jon replied after a while. Robb watched him a moment before nodding.

"An honest answer," he remarked, "Does she love you?" Jon let out a short laugh.

"I have no clue."

"She cares for you, that's clear."

"Yes," John agreed. The elation that filled him at hearing Robb's reminder left an involuntary smile on his lips. Robb noticed it and recognized the look. Perhaps Jon didn't know, but Robb did. Jon's looks were ones of a man in love.

"I'm glad you know now," Jon said looking at his best friend.

"So am I," Robb agreed with a grin, "now I have something with which to tease you relentlessly." Jon laughed.

"I'd expect nothing less," Jon answered. He felt a weight off his shoulders, but relief was far from him. He still ached for her. Robb went to find Theon, and Jon stood where he was. He closed his eyes, recalling the feel of her in his arms. _Come back to me…_

He had to make it through He had to return to her.

* * *

October 21,1917, The Stark House

The papers said the troops were due to land in France today, but Sansa already knew thanks to Margery's letter. Sansa wrote to Margery constantly. Her dearest friend was across the ocean, and she wanted so badly to tell her secrets and laugh at her jokes and walk about the Tyrell's gardens arm in arm. She couldn't do any of those things, so she wrote, and Margery wrote back. Margery told her about all the places she'd been from her final training in Virginia to working in France, but most of all, she wrote about Robb, Theon, and Jon. She called them "our boys" affectionately. Of course she wrote about Robb most. Sansa could tell how much they cared for each other, how fearlessly they were falling. If only she could be so brave, less cautious, but it was not her nature. She wrote to Jon when she could, and he received word from him almost weekly, even though rarely were his letters lengthy. She still treasured every one that came through the post. Any word from him meant things were still well and he was still safe. Home was more of a challenge. When standing on that platform, she thought a lot of how life would transform, how much more she would be worrying about those that left. She barely imagined how those at home would behave.

Arya had been oddly quiet in the last months. She seemed contemplative, and Sansa knew soon she would reveal a well thought out plot of some kind. She didn't ask her what it was. She was honestly too afraid to ask. She thought the less she knew the better. Rickon remained a source of joy, though he did miss his brother. He was off at school for the first time, and Bran tried his best to look after him. Bran had grown protective of all of them in his own way. Sansa thought because Bran couldn't fight, he was trying to make up for it here. Sansa was glad he was too young. She already worried about one brother. She didn't want to worry about was tired more than before, but even so he was at the office a lot more than Sansa ever remembered in her seventeen years. With the war waging across the ocean, steel was in great demand. He had his duties as a prominent citizen, and he and Uncle Benjen were at the office frequently that summer. Sansa was impressed by Father, and proud of him. Though the steel mill would greatly benefit from a war, it was the last thing he wanted. Her father was a good man. Of that Sansa was sure.

Mother rarely smiled, and was constantly finding ways to preoccupy herself that summer. Septa Mordane had trouble keeping her out of the kitchen and eventually promoted one of the scullery maids to assist the cook so that Mrs. Stark could take on her responsibilities of scrubbing the pots and pans. The first few times this occurred the kitchen was eerily quiet, the help not entirely sure how to react to the lady of the house working alongside them. After a while, they started mundane conversation about babies, fabrics, the weather, and really anything that avoided the topic of war. Sansa was sure her mother was grateful. She just hated to see her when she came out of the kitchen. It seemed like she was happier scrubbing the pots with the maids than being with her own family. _Broken family,_ Sansa reminded herself constantly. She saw how her mother's despondency broke her father's heart. It was too much for Sansa, and she started making a habit of going for long horse rides with Arya every morning. She would dress and then walk across the grounds to the stable in the back of the property with Arya. Sometimes she went alone. She would mount her horse and take long rides along the coastline. She heard the waves of the Atlantic crash on the rocky cliff sides and she thought of how on the other side of this peaceful scene there was a bloody one with soldiers in a strange land, not sure if the view of the Atlantic on the French coast would be the last time they saw the ocean. Perhaps it was the first. She wouldn't go home until it was time for lunch. The first few times she was sore beyond belief. It was hard to get out of bed the next day, let alone mount her horse, but her need for freedom and escape was stronger than her aches and pains. According to Ser Rodrick, the couple weeks after they all left Winterfell her horse had become restless without the activity. He'd had to have one of the stable hands ride her every morning. Now away from Winterfell, she would take long walks around the neighborhood, but on some days it wasn't enough. It didn't give her the wind in her hair, the sound of it filling her ears, the smell of ocean air filling her nostrils. She'd already gone on a walk that morning, but she was still restless. She wanted that feeling of freedom, but here she was, far from Winterfell and far from her horse. She went to Arya's door and knocked.

"Come in!" Arya called. Sansa came into the room finding Arya at her desk writing. It was no longer an odd sight. Arya wrote to Jon and her brothers every day now.

"It's a nice day out," Sansa said, "fancy a walk?"

"Alright," Arya said as she shook her letter dry.

They were a couple of blocks away from the house before Arya broke the silence.

"I want to fight in the war." Sansa looked at her sister, but made sure to keep walking. As far as plots, this was Arya's most ambitious one yet.

'Sorry?"

"I want to fight in the war," Arya repeated, "I want to do my part."

"You can't fight in the war. You're a woman."

"There are ways around that. I'll find them."

"You're not old enough."

"So I'll lie."

"Arya, you can't!"

"And why not? Jon and Robb went. Margery, too! I thought of being a nurse, but I don't have Margery's gentility. I know I don't have what it takes to be a nurse, but I do have what it takes to be a fighter. I can't just stay home anymore, Sansa. I feel so hopeless. I need to do something."

"Why can't you do something here?"

"Like what?" Sansa tried coming up with something Arya could do for the war effort, but nothing that came to mind was good enough. The only thing Sansa could see was Arya fighting in some way. It was fitting. She just didn't want it to be so.

"Arya, if I lose you…"

"I know," Arya replied, gentler this time, "but I can't stay. I have to do my part."

"But Mother and Father—"

"they won't know until I've already left. They won't know where to look for me, either. I'll make sure of it."

"You've planned this out," Sansa stated. Arya looked away from her sister.

"I've been planning for months," Arya confessed, "Ever since Robb and Jon left. I wanted so badly to be on that train with them. I've never been a lady, Sansa. Not like you. I never fit that mold."

"You don't have to fit that mold."

"No, I don't. And that's why I want to set my own path. I want to fight."

"What if you're caught?" Sansa asked. She didn't want Arya to go. If she did, Sansa would be the only one left.

"I won't get caught," Arya said, "I'll make sure of it."

"It's a good thing I gave you those trousers then," Sansa said. Arya hugged her sister tight. Arya knew Sansa didn't consider herself to be strong, but Arya thought she was the strongest of them all.

Don't tell Mother or Father," Arya pleaded, "They'll try to stop me, and they might be successful, but I know I'll regret it if I don't go."

"When will you leave?"

"Next week. Probably on Monday before the sun is up."

"Please be careful," Sansa murmured into her sister's hair.

"I will. I have the hunting knife Jon gave me and the trousers you made me. I'll be unstoppable." Sansa didn't know about the knife, but it didn't surprise her, especially now that she knew Jon better than before. The sisters concluded her walk, and Sansa went to her room to write to Margery. She wrote of the weather, her new dress, and her exhausting lessons, but it wasn't enough. It wasn't real. More than anything, she wanted a confidant, someone she could actually talk to, but when she looked about she found her friends were all gone, and she was alone.


	12. Chapter 12

**So some things to keep in mind for this chapter: I haven't done extensive research on recruitment for the war, but i do know that they were in dire need of soldiers. Young boys that were under the age of eighteen, sometimes as young as thirteen would make their way into the military to fight in the war. most of the time the recruitment officers could tell but they turned a blind eye. these boys were usually messengers and errand boys instead of on the front lines.**

 **the height requirement for all soldiers was 5'3".**

 **The Lafayette Flying Corps was a group of American pilots who fought with the French before the U.S. declared war. they were typically volunteers. This started with a small group of men who started the Lafayette Escandrille. Other squadrons were formed over the coure of the war. By the time the U.S. joined the war, people still volunteered with the LFC and there were many squadrons including the LE. Americans were only pilots. All other positions were filled by Frenchmen. This is actually a fascinating part of history. I highly recommend reading about it.**

 **Assuming an identity before social security was much easier. Social Security numbers were not issued until 1936 as part of FDR's New Deal.**

 **I have not come across any story of women fighting in World War 1, but as far as historical fiction goes, it's plausible. The binding that Arya does is around the chest and the waist. you place two long, thin, cushions along the sides of your waist to hide the curve and then bind it with an ace bandage making a smooth torso.**

 **Hope you enjoy! - FlamingRose**

November 1, 1917, recruitment Center

Arya was terrified. Even in her trousers with her hair cut short, her chest bound, and the curvature of her waist hidden, she felt like she stuck out. _I might as well be wearing one of Sansa's evening gowns and ribbons in my hair_ , she thought dolefully. Still, she had to try. It was too late to turn back now. She straightened her posture as she regained her confidence standing in the line of boys. She barely made the height requirement standing at five feet and three and a half inches, and she bribed the doctor with five dollars she managed to scrape together by saving and stealing so that they would pass her through the physical. Now she was in one final line to become an official solider. She was only two people away from having her name—or rather someone's name—on the ledger. She'd receive her uniform and her assignment, then off she'd go to fight.

The man at the table was old—older than her father anyways—and the definition of gruff. He was decorated and high ranking, but his uniform was faded from multiple washes and multiple wears. He was what Uncle Benjen called career military. The lack of ring on his finger told Arya this was his life. Next to him sat a quiet young man with broad shoulders. He also had on a uniform, but it was foreign to Arya. She wasn't even sure it was American. She thought she spotted the French seal somewhere on it, but she wasn't sure.

They were different than the other officers she'd seen so far. The others barely looked at her if they looked at her at all. She could slip between the gaping cracks in the system when they weren't looking. That's how she was standing in this line. These were different though. They looked at each of the boys in turn instead of only at their papers as they approached the table. Arya thought that might be a problem for her. She tried her best to keep cool when she took her place in front of the two men.

"Name?" the old man asked.

"Arry Snow," She answered. The general looked at her. She felt her heart quicken. She could not be found out.

"You look a bit on the short side," he commented.

"I am five foot three and a half," Arya affirmed. The officer looked her up and down assessing her.

"Well Arry," he said, "you understand that being part of the Lafayette Flying Crops means you are to be trained as a pilot."

"Yes sir."

"The problem is I can't have someone so young as a pilot," he said in a low voice. Her heart sank. She couldn't be a nurse, her brother and his friends were in the American infantry so she couldn't go there, and the navy was out of the question since her mother had so many connections there due to her Aunt Lysa and her grandfather. She was bound to be discovered if she went anywhere else. This was the only branch of the military she was sure she could hide in plain sight with no chance of discovery.

"I don't have to fly. I can do other things."

"The French forces only need pilots."

"I'm a fast learner."

"I don't know if the French care about that," the man said, pinching the bridge of his nose, "I don't even know what they're saying most of the time to be perfectly honest with you."

"I could probably tell you," Arya announced. "I had to learn French in—in school."

"General Yorren, sir," the young man spoke for the first time. Arya was surprised to hear he was American.

"Yes, Gendry, what is it you want?" Gendry looked at her, and she felt a chill hit her in her spine. He looked at her so clearly. It sent shivers along her nervous system. _Please don't figure me out,_ she silently prayed.

"You say you can speak French?" Arya nodded eagerly.

'I think the French could use a boy like him. And if they can't, we can." He looked boldly at the general holding his gaze till he was sure he understood his meaning.

"You have a point," Yorren muttered thinking it over, "alright, you're assigned Arry Snow, pilot in training. Here is your uniform. Welcome to the Lafayette Flying Corps."

"Thank you, sir!" Arya did her best to keep from smiling.

"And Gendry, don't think you are off the hook. This boy is your responsibility. If he comes out incompetent, yellow bellied, or any other version of lousy, it's on you."

"Sir, yes, sir." Gendry replied. He clasped a hand on Arya's shoulder and steered her away from the other recruits. They went down a hallway and out a door. Arya clutched to her now folded clothes when she saw the dirty alley he led her to.

"What are we doing?"

"Okay, kid, listen—"

"Don't call me kid," Arya warned. Gendry's eyebrows knit together.

"You are a kid."

"Am not," she said stubbornly.

Gendry looked about before answering in a low voice, "well I can't call you boy seeing as you're a girl." Arya stomped on his foot with her boot.

"Uncalled for!" he groaned in pain.

"So was your insult," she shot back.

"It's not an insult if it's true," he said through his teeth as he looked her in the eye. The same chill returned to her spine. Her eyes widened. He knew.

"Yorren probably thinks you're twelve or thirteen due to that voice of yours and your overall look. He always tries to get those kids to go home. Not that it always works of course, but he tries. That's more you can say about him than others of his rank who just look at recruits as bodies instead of people…but I knew. I can tell you're different: bone structure, manner, and waistline—though you didn't do an awful job of hiding it—definitely a girl. It's a wonder you made it past the physical."

"I bribed a doctor," Arya said softly, "the same doctor got me false papers so I could be Arry Snow." Gendry stared at her in surprise. Then Gendry laughed. It was soft at first, but soon transformed into an unbridled booming sound, and it reminded Arya of home.

"You're smart, too. So: you can really speak French? That wasn't another lie?"

'I can,' she affirmed.

"Good. Here's what I'll do: I won't oust you. Your secret is safe with me. Plus, I'll teach you how to fly. In return, you teach me French. All the mechanics are French. I don't get very far since I can't communicate with them. With you, that'll change. Deal?"

'Deal," Arya replied, shaking his hand. Whether or not she could trust Gendry Arya didn't know, but she also didn't have much of a choice either.

'What's your real name, anyways?" he asked. Arya shook her head.

"Nope. Not right now. It's better for both of us if you don't know at the moment," she answered—the last thing she wanted was him knowing she was a Stark.

"That's fair," he conceded, "Arry it is then. Now if you get those new clothes on we can go have a bite to eat on me in celebration of our new partnership." He turned around as Arya quickly slipped out of her old clothes and into the new military issued bag, and came to Gendry's side as they walked out of the alleyway.

Gendry?" she tried. The new name sounded odd coming from her mouth, but she figured she'd grow used to it—might even grow to like it.

"yeah?"

'Why are you being so—nice to me?"

"Maybe then you'll be nice to me," he answered mischievously, pausing before letting go of a short laugh, "but in all seriousness, I know you have a lot to offer. You're eager, you speak French, and you know the benefits of hiding a knife in your boot." Arya flushed. She thought she'd hidden it well.

"You did hide it well," he answered, as if he could read her mind, "I'm just more observant than most."

"So…you're helping me because I'm useful?"

"When you put it like that it sounds kind of awful, doesn't it," he muttered, "but yeah, basically."

"I'll take it," Arya declared, unperturbed. Really she was relieved. Besides, if he was this observant in all situations, she was glad to have an equally useful ally in Gendry as he did with her.


	13. Chapter 13

**AN: and i am back! goodness life is nuts, but I am doing my best to keep up with my updates. an update to last chapter's history notes, there is evidence that suggests women disguised themselves in the war as soldiers. and if you want to learn more on women soldiers there was a female battalion in Russia which inspired style icons in the 1920s to cut their hair short.**

 **some things to note: Battle of Cambrai was one of the first battles to involve American soldiers fighting as American forces, not volunteers for Britain or France. On December 3rd, there was a retreat, and about 4 days later the battle ended. Truces were common in trench warfare to clear the ground of bodies. some Truces became famous such as the Christmas of 1914 where soldiers stopped fighting to celebrate Christmas and even threw each other gifts from the opposite ends of the battlefield.**

 **Little people like Tyrion usually were outcasts and were usually found as spectacles at freak shows pulling stunts and doing tricks. Barnum's was one of the most popular freak shows at the time. Frequently little people were socially shunned and mistreated. that being said, there are dwarfs in history who have made incredible strides and impacts on history such as Benjamin Lay, an abolitionist and friend of Benjamin Franklin.**

 **enjoy this next chapter!**

 **-Flaming Rose**

December 3rd, 1917, Battle of Cambrai, France

It had been one month and nine days since Jon, Theon, and Robb set sail for France from London. The French countryside was gorgeous, but he didn't think he could ever come back—if he lived through this. Trench warfare had destroyed the landscape. Blood soaked into the soil, and the sounds of bullets and bombs cut through the silence. Sometimes he tried to imagine what it was like before the war. He tried to visualize the fields with no trace of the gruesome battle in front of him. If I can imagine it that way, he thought, maybe I can return when the land heals and finds its peace again. He still couldn't manage such a scene though he tried for it daily. He had better luck imagining home, and imagining Winterfell. Every night he would go back to Winterfell. He tried his best to bring himself there. He got no sleep otherwise—no respite from the horrors of his every day; the thick stench of death hung in the air above living, dead, and undeclared. Blood and pieces of men were strewn about the ground. Groans and cries of pain echoed in his head serving as a warning to stay vigilant. It meant death if he didn't. The smell in the trenches was awful, so poignant it left a nasty taste in his mouth. The sounds were deafening. The sights, the things he touched, anything he sensed was an awful overload, but Jon preferred the sounds of battle to the eerie quiet that fell on both sides once a momentary truce was called. In the silence when he didn't have fighting to distract him, everything else came into focus: Men ill with sickness or rotting wounds, the looks on his fellow soldiers after a truce is called, wondering who of their squadron would be found in the carnage. The dread before he was given his command—he prayed he would not have to leave the trench. Then again he'd been in the trench so long he would give anything for a change of scenery. Be careful what you wish for—that's what he learned.

Once, Jon was assigned to retrieve the living from no man's land when the truce was declared, and if he had time, he was to retrieve the dead. When he came up over the ridge of dirt, all he saw were bodies—corpses, once living, breathing, fighting men struck down in the dirt. He was so scared he could barely move. He wasn't sure if he'd faint or be sick, but he had a job to do, and only a set amount of time to do it. One by one he and his peers drug the living and dead to their side.

Today they expected much of the same. The fighting went on and on. Jon couldn't tell if it was night or day when the news came to him.

"Half their ranks have retreated," Theon told them as he made his way through the injured to Robb and Jon's side, "there's a chance this hell might be coming to an end.

"Thank God!" Robb exclaimed, "That's such good news. I never thought I'd see an end to this battle." Jon stayed quiet. Despite Robb's optimism and Theon's hopeful words, Jon didn't see and end anytime soon/ Even if the battle ended, the war would wage on. He thought of Benjen. He thought of that morning in Winterfell before he left. He'd told he godfather he wanted to help bring an end to the fighting. At the time his godfather gave him a look he didn't understand. Now he realized it was sadness at Jon's naivety.

'My son," Benjen gravely replied, "as long as there are men on this earth, there will always be fighting."

Benjen was right. This was neither the first nor the last war in the history of the world. He felt stuck in a never-ending cycle. The fighting would never stop, and after all he'd seen, Jon found it hard to believe he'd ever find peace.

December 3, 1917 , The Stark House

It had been over a month since Arya ran away. That's how Mother and Father explained it to Bran and Rickon, but Sansa wished they wouldn't. Sansa knew that Arya ran to the battlefield, not away from home. She got letters from both her and Margery now. She hadn't heard from Jon since he arrived in France. She tried not to worry, but it was always there in the back of her mind. Margery's letters were informative and helpful. She always felt like she was kept in the loop about everything, especially Robb and Margery's whirlwind romance.

When Arya's letters came they were all about the things she was learning and the people she met. To keep Arya safe, Sansa always received these letters from someone named Gendry. Arya explained in her first letter that he was a young American pilot who was keeping her secret and teaching her how to fly in exchange for French lessons and to act as translator when talking to the French mechanics. _Old Nan would be so proud of me, and so relieved that all those hours she spent with me in my lessons actually paid off!_ She wrote. Bran and sometimes Rickon would also write to her from school. Sansa lived for her letters. Her mother and father had so much to deal with, and with all her siblings gone, she was frequently lonely. Letters were lovely, but it wasn't the same as real human contact. Today she decided to venture out. She put on her most comfortable walking shoes, her wool stockings, and a brown and grey striped skirt with a grey blouse. She put on her coat and made her way to the Lannister house.

It wasn't her best decision to walk unattended to the Lannister house considering who lived there, but she missed human contact and face to face interaction so much she was willing to endure a brief encounter with Joffrey or Cersei if that meant spending quality time with Myrcella. When she arrived she could hear voices, mainly Cersei's, but another one, piped up from time to time—one she didn't recognize. It was a man's voice, and whatever this man was saying seemed to anger her greatly.

"I'm here to see Myrcella," she said quietly to the butler.

"Yes, of course Miss Stark," he replied. She followed him down the hall trying not to listen to the argument developing in the other part of the house.

"You can wait here in the parlor. Miss Myrcella will be down momentarily." Sansa thanked him as he left and perched on the edge of a chair furthest from the door. The voices stopped and were replaced by the sound of hurried footsteps in the hallway. Myrcella's little bother Tommen, perhaps, thought Sansa. Instead, a man—at least she thought he was a man—came into the had the face of a man, but the stature of a child. He had sharp, intelligent eyes, a prominent but slightly crooked nose, and a mouth that seemed to be in a permanent smirk. Sansa had seen a dwarf before, mostly in pictures advertising Mister Barnum's circus and show, but never in person, and definitely not in a parlor. Though this was new and a bit surprising, Sansa was careful to keep her face neutral.

"Oh! I'm so sorry to barge in here this way," he apologized. His voice was much deeper than she expected. _Had he been much taller, he would have been a fairly imposing man,_ she thought.

"It's quite alright," she replied.

"I seem to have left my gloves in here," he muttered as he scanned the room. His eyes settled on the small table next to the chaise lounge by the window and made his way towards it. He grabbed his gloves before stopping and turning to Sansa once more.

"Goodness! Where are my manners? Tyrion Lannister," he said as he held out his hand.

"Sansa Stark," she answered as she offered her hand. He took it and kissed it formally. Sansa blushed.

"I am Cersei's abomination of a brother," he said breezily.

"I don't think that's a fair assessment," Sansa answered kindly, "I think you are just as much a gentleman as anyone else."

"You are very kind, my lady, but I assure you my past actions have given me the title."

"Is that why you were arguing?" She hadn't meant to be so bold. It just slipped out. She hoped she hadn't offended him. She thought of Cersei, and she thought of Joffrey. _Offending a Lannister is a foolish thing to do, and something I have done too often. I should watch my tongue_ , she thought to herself. To her surprise, Tyrion's smirk transformed into a genuine smile, free of any sardonic qualities.

"You are an astute young lady. And bold," he said, "you will do my niece some good. I assume you are here to see Myrcella and hope you are not here to see my eldest nephew."

"Your assumptions are correct, Sir."

"I am glad to hear it. I have always known Starks to be sensible."

"I am afraid that is not always the case," Sansa said, thinking of her brother, sister, and cousin all across the water fighting in a war, "though I suppose Bran is fairly sensible. He reads so many books one would hope he'd find some sense in the pages he's read." She wasan't sure what compelled her to speak so freely with this man. He was a stranger and a Lannister at that.

"I'm sorry. I've forgotten myself," Sansa apologized in haste. Tyrion had a knowing smile on his face, his green eyes shining. Sansa wondered what he thought he knew.

"You never have to apologize for speaking freely with me, Miss Stark. Lord knows I get plenty of trouble myself when I do the same."

"It's a shame that honesty is not more highly valued," sansa stated.

"I agree wholeheartedly," Tyrion replied, "It was a pleasure to meet you, Miss Stark. I should take my leave. I would hate for my sister to think I have overstayed my welcome. Should you like an opportunity to speak freely, however, don't hesitate to call on me. And If your brother is ever in want of reading material, I have one of the finest libraries this side of the Mississippi." He said with a kind smile. She was starting to have a new appreciation for certain Lannisters.

"Uncle Tyrion!" Myrcella exclaimed as she came into the parlor.

"Sweet Myrcella!" Tyrion greeted his neice warmly, "I am just on my way out."

"So soon?"

"Yes my dear, but not to worry. Miss Stark is a much better companion for you than i. Besides, remember that my door is always open."

"Of course Uncle," Myrcella smiled brightly, "goodbye." Sansa waited until Tyrion left the house before asking about him.

"Uncle Tyrion? Mother calls him a deserter, but that's only because he decided to become a lawyer instead of joining in the family business."

"Lawyers are quite necessary and respected," Sansa answered, curious to know how such a small man was taken so seriously.

"I agree! And I know mother and grandfather do, too, but he doesn't work for families like ours. Uncle Tyrion declares himself a defender of the disenfranchised, though very fewseem to understand how a rich man can be on their side if he doesn't know their struggle. He still helps them, though, if they ask for his help. Some suffragettes have asked for his assistance, and he's done his best to help them." Sansa could see how such actions might lead to some family tension, but she still didn't think it granted him the title of "abomination". The Lannister family was proving to be a complex web of relationships and dysfunctions. She was glad her family didn't have these sort of disagreements.

"He seems…different. From others in your family," Sansa said carefully.

"He is," Myrcella laughed, "he believes in liberated women, education, equal rights for all, an end to segregation. Grandfather says he's a radical."

'He sounds very interesting to me," Sansa stated absent mindedly. Sansa held her breath. Her statement didn't seem to faze Myrcella. In fact, she wondered if Myrcella even heard her.

"Come Sansa," Myrcella said as she grabbed her hand, "I want to show you the newest dress Uncle Jaime brought me. He says I should ear it to the Christmas ball. It's red velvet, the most beautiful sleeves you've ever seen and the most delicate lace!

"The Christmas ball? It's still happening even with the war going on?"

'Mother says we all need a bit of diversion. We need the ball more than ever."

'Forgive me if I disagree," Sansa said with a low voice, "I need my brother back more than I need a ball."

"And Jon?" Myrcella asked. Sansa swallowed.

"Him too," she replied evenly.

"Mother says Jon going to war is for the best. She says he will find his place there." Myrcella's voice was delicate and careful. "I'm sure mother just meant he'll find fulfillment following in your Uncle's footsteps. Not that he should—" Myrcella's unspoken words hung in the air.

'Of course not," Sansa replied, hr voice as cold and detatched as her facial expression. She would show no weakness in the Lannister house, not even in front of well-intentioned, sweet, Myrcella. Sansa went to the window and watched the snow begin to fall in the street. It was just starting to stick to the ground.

"I'm sorry for my mother, Sansa," Myrcella said quietly, "she's not always so careless with her words."

"You're right. Your mother is always careful and deliberate with her choice of words." Sansa answered.

"I've upset you,"Myrcella said with a wavering voice.

"Oh no, Myrcella, not you," Sansa said taking her friend's hands in hers, "I'm sorry. I shouldn't take my frustrations out on you."

'It's alright, Sansa. I know you are hurting. I wish my brother had gone to fight."

"No," Sansa uttered. It was the best she could do. It was the most diplomatic answer she could think of.

"Well, no. It would hurt mother. But I wish he was brave like your brother."

"I know what will cheer us up," Sansa said, "You can show me the dress that your Uncle Jaime brought you. Then once the snow had fallen a bit more, we can make a snowman by the front door to greet the postman." Myrcella's eyes lit up at the plan. Sansa was glad to see Myrcella happy, but she could not shake her own melancholy. She wished she knew what it would take to make her feel normal again.


	14. Chapter 14

**Hey folks! so sorry this chapter is posted so late later the last one. As a theater person i never know exactly how crazy my schedule will become, and this month it was insane!**

 **Some notes: early versions of airplanes had to have their propellers started manually before taking off.**

 **Gendry and Arya are breaking a lot of rules, but what is a story with these two if there isn't some rule breaking, am i right?**

 **These are the corresponding French translations to all the fruits mentioned, but if i have made a mistake feel free to let me know in the reviews. The chapter is short, but i have more Jon and Sansa stuff coming in the next one and it will be lengthy i am sure. if you would like to leave a review it is always greatly appreciated. I love hearing from my readers :) Enjoy! - FlamingRose**

December 6, 1917, Rural outskirts of Paris

" _Le Pomme_ ," Gendry repeated as he held the apple in front of his face. Arya sat across from him, a bowl of fruit between them. It was late in the mess hall, way past dinner, but their friend—who went by Hot Pie- let them spend time in the mess when everyone was gone to conduct French lessons. This way, they could speak freely without being interrupted or overheard. Arya had been giving Gendry late night lessons for almost a whole month, and he had yet to take her up in a plane. She was learning the mechanics and she had sat in the plane once, but never gone up. She was starting to wonder if she ever would.

"Good," Arya said without looking up. Her head sunk from its place on her hand to the crook of her elbow. She was sure it was well past midnight. They should have been asleep. They'd have to rise at four the next morning.

"Hey hey, don't fall asleep. I'm nowhere near where I'd like to be on this," Gendry said as he swatted at her.

"I don't see why I can't just keep translating for you."

"Because you won't always be here. What if one of us is on a mission and the other stays behind? How will I communicate? I need to learn the language."

"I'm tired, Waters," Arya complained, "can't we just go to bed?"

"Bed?" Gendry said with a lilt of his voice.

"I didn't mean together and you know it," Arya mumbled from behind her sleeve, her head still down on the table.

"We'll have to fix that." Gendry mumbled after a moment. Arya's head shot up. She found Gendry staring fixedly at the apple in his hand, a crease between his eyebrows. He was thinking hard about something, and to her relief it wasn't what she thought it was.

"Fix what?" she said, hiding her initial surprise behind what she hoped was a cool expression.

"I don't think it's fair that you can refer to me by my last name but I don't even know your real first name."

Arya sighed. It was true. He was already doing her a huge favor by allowing her to send letters under his name. He never asked who she wrote to. He never asked to read what she wrote. He gave her complete privacy and the benefit of the doubt. She could have been a German spy for all he knew, but he trusted her all the same. He deserved her name at least.

"You can't tell anyone," she said.

"I know. I already promised."

"Even if you want to take it back."

"Even if I want to take it back."

"Even if—"

"Oh just tell me already dammit!" he said exasperated.

"Alright," She said, "My name is Arya Stark." Gendry's eyebrows shot up.

"Stark? The millionaire steel tycoon? That Stark?" His breathing became noticeably quicker.

'This is why I didn't want to tell you," Arya said as she stifled a yawn.

"I've been cursing in front of you, saying crude things, and you're a society gal. Sorry—society lady."

"I am not!"

"You're a Stark, of course you are." Arya sent a swift kick to his shin under the table.

"That wasn't very lady like." Arya groaned in frustration as she got up from the table.

"Arya come on," Gendry said between his stifled laughter. He got up from the table to catch up to her. He stopped her with one hand on her arm and spun her around.

"I didn't want to tell you because I was afraid you'd send me right back," She blurted, "And after all the work I had done to get into the Flying corps I wasn't going to go back home. I need to be here. If that meant getting rid of my name and identity I was going to do it."

"I wouldn't have sent you back—I don't think. Well, I don't know. I'm sure your family is facing a bit of a scandal right now. But I gave you my word. I won't oust you, and the fact you are a Stark doesn't change that. Your secret is still safe with me." Arya relaxed and took a deep breath. She nodded and let go of a small smile as she saw the truth in his eyes. She could trust him. Gendry was one of the most trustworthy people she knew, aside from Jon perhaps.

"Besides, now that I know who you are it makes a lot more sense as to why you know so much French. Now can we get back to the lesson? I still have to name grapes and blueberries."

"I'm still tired, Waters," Arya complained, though her moment of frustration had woken her up a bit.

"Well then I guess I won't finally take you up in the aircraft today, Stark." Arya perked up at the statement. What she'd been waiting for was so close.

"Could we fly at night?" Arya asked.

"If you get through this bowl of fruit with me, then yes." Arya rushed back to the table and swung her legs over the bench. Gendry smiled at how she nearly bounced in her seat waiting for him to return to the table. She was so easily revitalized. He wondered if she ever got tired—truly tired.

"So these are?" Arya said quickly holding up the grapes.

" _Les raisins_ ," Gendry answered.

"And these?" she held up a handful of blueberries.

" _Myrtilles_ ," Gendry said with a triumphant smile. He reached out for a couple of berries, but Arya snatched her hand away and popped two in her mouth.

"Hey!" Gendry exclaimed indignantly. Arya ate another.

"Come on Stark!" he said lunging across the table. She was much too quick for him. She was up and on the other side of the table in seconds. She popped one more blueberry in her mouth.

"You'll have to catch me Waters!" she called across the mess hall before dashing out the door. Gendry followed in pursuit. Arya was quick and quiet, possibly the stealthiest soldier Gendry had ever come across. If it wasn't for her shadow darting in and out of the moonlight he wouldn't have been able to see her. The camp was quiet aside from the almost indiscernible footsteps of the two young people. He could hear her laughter in and out of the air like tiny bells, almost as if she was not human at all but woodland sprite. _She would be something so ethereal and mischevious_ , Gendry mused as he ran. They were soon at his plane and Arya stood rooted to the spot in front of the left wing holding out her hand. Gendry stopped in front of her cupping both of his hands under hers and she dumped the remaining berries into them. He ate them quickly before she changed her mind. It was a worthwhile reward. Then again, seeing her cheeks flush in the moonlight could have been reward enough. Arya was pretty, though he could tell she didn't think so—at least she didn't give it much thought, but he wouldn't tell her. That would be asking for death. Or at least serious injury.

"Alright Arya," he said quietly, "Go to the propeller," She smiled broadly and ran to the front of the plane waiting for Gendry's cue. Gendry made his way into the plane and gave the motor a start. He signaled with his hand and Arya pulled down the propeller with all her might. As it spun she ran to the plane and jumped in.

"Strap in!" Gendry called to her. As she did the plane began to lurch forward. She could feel her heart in her throat and her smile was unstoppable though she was sure her face would freeze in place. She didn't care. She gasped as she felt the plane lift off the ground and almost left her stomach behind. The plane gained altitude and she watched the ground as it became more and more vast beneath her. The wind in her hair became an overwhelming sound on its own, almost as loud as the plane. It was the most incredible feeling she could have ever imagined. She never dreamed she could find this feeling on earth. She was flying. She was as high as the birds going towards the stars. She was free.

Gendry heard Arya's peals of laughter and cries of excitement as he glided the plane over fields and trees. Her whoops and yells would wake an entire camp, but he let her get as loud as she wanted. Up here, no one could hear them. It's why he loved the skies so much. No one could hear his laughter, cries, screams, whatever guttural sounds possessed him were drowned out by the wind and the motor. Up here, he was free to feel and be whatever it is he wanted. There was nothing like it, and he was happy to see Arya felt the same. She would be an incredible pilot. Better than him, perhaps. Better than most for sure.

After what Arya was sure was too short a time, Gendry landed the plane and steered it back into its place. He and Arya got down from it and snuck their way back into the camp. The sky was becoming a lighter shade of blue signaling the rising of the sun.

'That was amazing," Arya whispered to him as they made their way to their tent, "absolutely amazing."

"It is, isn't it?" Gendry said almost reverently.

"When do I get to fly, Gendry? When?" she asked eagerly. They stopped right outside her tent that she shared with Hot Pie.

"Soon," he replied, "now that I know how you take to it, how natural you seem to feel up there, I'd say in almost no time at all."

'Then I better get some sleep. At least pretend to sleep. Who could sleep after something so exhilarating as flying?" She gushed. She darted to her tent and turned around to smile and wave quickly at Gendry before disappearing inside. Gendry stood outside her tent for a moment, his hand up in mid wave, his smile small but soft.

'Who could indeed," he said softly to himself before turning to make his way to his own tent. Soon, he'd have to be up and awake to face the day. The sun would come too soon. If only he could still be up in the clouds.


	15. Chapter 15

A new chapter for you lovely readers! thanks for sticking with me! I am enjoying the writing i do, and i am glad you do, too. If you want to give me some love, leave a comment! I'd love it :) some notes this time around:

 **When the soldiers were not fighting, Paris was usually where you would find them when they got a night out on the town.**

 **Marconi was the inventor of the radio. There is a book called Thunderstruck that tells the story is a fantastic way if you are interested in learning more. Radio engineers were indispensable since radio was a new way to communicate. little was known about radio waves. Marconi's radio used Hertzian waves.**

 **Soldiers commonly read books in order to escape. it was one of the few diversions they had. They didn't read non fiction much, but would read more along the lines of classic and popular adventure stories. The more educated soldiers were usually seen reading classic works like Shakespeare, and yes, Jane Austen and other comedies and romance narratives were popular, though not many soldiers would openly admit to reading those books.**

 **At this point in time a bookstore as I described would be a gem to find. In fact, I have found only a handful myself in this day and age.**

 **Hope you enjoy this next installment! - FlamingRose**

December 23, 1917, Paris, France

Jon straddled the wall as he sat by the river. It was cold, but it hadn't snowed yet. It was supposed to that night. Judging by the overcast sky and the crisp moisture in the air, Jon was sure it would snow soon. This Christmas, he was lucky he didn't have to be fighting. He was grateful that today he would not be responsible for the loss of someone's son or brother or husband. He blinked away the thought. He had to stop thinking that way or he would never survive the war. He had seven days of reprieve. He'd take it and try his best to enjoy it. He held his hand over his pocket, pressing its content closer to his chest. It had become a habit of his. It was the closest he could be to her for the foreseeable future. She would be going to the Lannister ball tonight. He imagined she'd be wearing dark hues, as close to black as she dared in her own silent protest. He'd received a letter from Sansa via Margery earlier in the day postmarked a week ago where she expressed how upset she was with the Lannister's decision to have a ball despite the war. He'd read it three times already. He understood Sansa's fury, but he wished balls were the height of his worries nowadays. Plus, he would trade places with any of Sansa's dance partners tonight. Only a year ago it was he who had discovered how much he liked dancing when she was who he led around the floor. Even if he only had her for a few seconds, he would still have her at all. He wanted the quiet peace of Winterfell, but if he couldn't have it, the Lannister ball would do, just for an hour or two anyway.

In all honesty, he didn't particularly like the high society—the parties, the balls, the courtesies. He was more afraid he'd start liking his life as a soldier. He didn't want war to become his new normal: the death, sickness, and blood. The loss and grief…The way people reacted when he walked through the streets. On the one hand, he was a sign of hope for French forces, an ally. On the other, he was a reminder of the war, of why sons and husbands, fathers and brothers were gone and away from home...Home. Every day he felt more at home in war torn territories. He struggled to remember the nuances of home: the fields at his old school, Benjen's brownstone house…he was afraid he'd forget home altogether. But he still had Winterfell, always vivid, covered in sparkling snow. At least he still had that.

"Jon?" Sam Tarley interrupted his thoughts. He was not a man fit for war, but he had extensive knowledge of Hertzian waves and the mechanics of Marconi's radio. He was a nervous sort, but he was whip smart and indispensable. As Jon spent more and more time with Sam, he discovered he had extensive knowledge in far more than just radios.

"Sam."

'The other fellas are all going to the café on the corner, Then Theon says he knows a place to go dancing…I think he's missing home—even if he doesn't say so."

'he must be talking about the Lannister ball again," Jon replied, "he always did like that one best. 'The girls are always full of generous Christmas spirit,' he used to say." Jon guessed for a charmer like Theon the girls here in Paris would have a similar Christmas spirit. Theon talked and talked about French girls constantly, and how different they were from girls back home. Jon still rather be home.

'I don't have much of an appetite," Jon answered.

""for food, or women?" sam asked.

"Both," Jon replied. Sam shifted in his spot.

"You know, I was going to skip the café and go to the bookstore on the corner down the way. The old man that runs it is fairly nice. He's got a lot of books on history, military strategy, art, even novels! I mean, if you're interested, you could come with me. If you want." Jon considered the offer in silence.

"It's a quiet shop," Sam continued, "and no one will bother you."

"That sounds great, Sam," Jon answered. Sam exhaled with relief.

"Great. It's just down the road." They walked in silence to the little shop. Jon was greeted by the smell of pipe tobacco and dust when he stepped through the door. Books were crammed into any and all available spaces, and the bookshelves went from floor to ceiling. Jon watched as sam's face completely evolved into a smile that brought the corners of his mouth to his ears.

Jon could see it was shops like these where Sam felt most comfortable. He stood taller, his shoulders held back instead of pitched forward the way Jon usually saw them back at camp. Even his brow was clear of the worry lines he usually sported. _War is no place for Sam_ , Jon thought, _even if he is a radio engineer. His place is here, or somewhere like it._

'Ah! Monsieur! You have returned!" Jon turned to see an old gentleman wearing spectacles and holding a pipe approach Sam. He shook Sam's hand with his unoccupied one.

"Yes, I am! And I've brought a friend with me."

'Wonderful!" the man said as he shook Jon's hand, "this man will read anything," he told Jon nodding his head in Sam's direction.

'Are you also a—an—eh, what is the word in English… _Vorace_ …a hungry reader..eh no! Vor-a-cious! Voracious Reader!"

"No," Jon answered, "Not really." Unless it was required for class, Jon was never much of a reader. He spent a lot more time outside or playing on the courts and fields. He read a book here and there, but it always took him so long to finish he didn't always see the point. When he was sixteen, though, he did read Jack London's _The Call of the Wild_. He tried to impress a girl from the all girl's academy across the street from his and Robb's school. Ygritte loved jack London. She was constantly talking about his work and his life. He tried to impress her with his knowledge of the book, but it all went horribly wrong. He became flustered and couldn't remember the plot for the life of him. He blamed her red hair. The way it seemed to set the air on fire, the way it curled, he couldn't help but get tongue tied and forgetful.

'You know nothing," she had laughed, "but you did take the time to at least try to impress me…and you are rather delicious." She said this last bit with a look that made his ears hot.

"We can go out this Saturday," he decided. They went out for many Saturdays after that, but it didn't last. She'd ended up going west, and then north searching for adventure in the Alaskan tundra. If anyone could survive that, it was Ygritte. He smiled at the memory of her. He hadn't thought of her in so long. He hoped she conquered the tundra. Maybe she'd write about it. Perhaps soon he'd find her name alongside Jack London's on the shelves of a bookstore.

"Well, I'm sure we can find something to inspire you," the old man said bringing jon out of his memories. Jon smiled politely without a word, and the old man smiled back, his eyes twinkling behind his spectacles.

"Well Monsieurs, I seem to have misplaced my matches. If you'll excuse me, I will leave you now. I will be in the back.

"Thank you," Sam replied before turning his attention to the nearest shelf.

Jon walked aimlessly about the bookstore looking from shelf to shelf and scanning the titles. A lot of the titles were in French, but there were also shelves of books in English, even some in Dutch. _Bran would love this,_ Jon thought, _he'd be so happy he would never leave._

He lightly grazed the spines of all the books with the tips of his fingers. The smell of the shop, the quiet, the shelter of the bookstore, and the feel of hardback books beneath his fingers…he felt tightness in his throat and a tingle in his nose before he realized he was crying. He hadn't truly experienced peace in so long. He hadn't felt safe since he arrived in France. But here he was, in a bookstore, leagues away from home, feeling a calm he thought he lost with childhood innocence. Jon leaned his head against his hand that rested on the shelf, and he allowed himself a moment to cry. He could feel the months of tension leaving his body. For the first time, he felt relief.

As his shaking subsided and his eyes began to dry, he took a deep breath and wiped his face with his hands, trying his best to pull himself together. As he finished his task of composing himself, smoke tickled his nose. The old man must've found his pipe tobacco.

"Can I help you find something?" he asked Jon kindly.

"Escape," Jon whispered. The man looked him in the eye, clarity and understanding present in his expression.

"Come with me then," the man said. He turned and walked to a corner of the store with beautiful hardback books in English.

"I understand her to be a classic English writer, but I must say her satire and romance is impressive. And I a Frenchman!" The old man chuckled at his own joke, and Jon smiled politely. _He's trying to cheer me up_ , Jon realized.

"Now—this one is just right for you," he said, pulling a book off the shelf. He looked down at the book the man had pulled from the shelf. _Persuasion_ by Jane Austen. He hadn't heard of _Persuasion_ , but he had heard of Jane Austen. He wondered at what the man thought of his reading preferences. Jon didn't read much, but when he did pick up a book, it was never anything like Jane Austen. He always thought her novels a bit girly for his taste. It was women's literature, but whether or not he'd like to admit it, comedy and romance might be exactly what he needed most. They brought levity, and lord knows he needed that. Besides, it was a beautiful book: red leather bound with gold leaf pages—too nice for a solider.

"What if I ruin it?" Jon asked as he ran his hand across the front.

"Ah, a common concern with you, I can tell," the bookstore owner said with a glint in his eye. Something about how he said that made Jon blush.

"I can cover it in brown paper if you are concerned about how it will fare in the trenches, but once this war ends—and it will end—you shouldn't need the paper anymore. You'll take care of it just fine."

Jon dug into his pocket for money, but the man stopped him.

"My gift to you."

"But sir!" Jon protested, "this book—I can tell—it's expensive!"

"Ah! It's valuable, yes. And even more valuable to you than I think it could be to anyone who would buy it right now. Take it, please." Jon looked at the book, running his hand over the cover.

"thank you," he said with a small smile.

'Of course. As long as you promise to come back."

"I will," Jon promised.

Jon and Sam left the old man's shop in search of a café. Both men were finally hungry and looking for sustenance. They found a café on an old winding street. They ordered a simple soup and a baguette as well as a pot of coffee and found a place next to the window but close enough to the kitchen to keep warm. Sam wasted no time in telling Jon all about that day's discoveries at the bookstore while Jon listened and ate slowly.

"I'm telling you, Jon. It's surprising how many books on modern science and engineering that man has in stock. I mean, shelves! And the languages! At least five—French, English, Spanish, Dutch, even a small Basque section! He says he used to have a German section, but since the war started he's had to hide those books away in the back. Says folks always make assumptions about stuff like that."

"Some people are absolute fools," Jon said, "so what did you find this time?" Sam smiled brightly and pulled out a paperback book with a green cover.

"It's a book on soundwaves—physics stuff. Fascinating really. Oh! And this one!" He pulled out a larger book.

"This one is on the history of French art. Also fascinating." Jon chuckled.

"You really will read anything," Jon stated, "I think it's great."

"Really?"

"Yeah. Curiosity should be admired in a person." On occasions like this, Sam reminded Jon of Bran.

'So what did they old man give you, Jon?" Jon pulled the book out slowly and placed it on the table. Sam whistled as he touched the gold leaf pages with the tip of his finger.

"Wow," he said reverently, "that's a nice one, a real beauty…and he just gave it to you?" Jon nodded.

"He said I would find it more valuable than anyone who would buy it. I don't know why. I've never even heard of this book before."

"May I?" Sam asked. Jon nodded as Sam picked up the book with two careful hands.

" _Persuasion_! Oh, I read this! It's actually pretty good. I'm usually a guy for nonfiction, but Gilly begged me to read Austen so I did: all six books."

"Gilly?"

"My girl back home," Sam said with a smile, "have you got a girl Jon?" Jon's hand instinctively went to his breast pocket.

"Sort of. It's complicated."

"What's complicated?"

"We come from different places, she's at home, I'm here, I haven't seen her in months…nothing was ever set in stone, and not much was ever said out loud come to think of it…She still writes to me, though," He said with a smile thinking back on the letter she sent about the Lannister party.

"That's something," Sam encouraged.

"Yes, I suppose it is."

"What's her name?"

"Sansa," Jon uttered reverently.

"Nice name. Very pretty, very unique."

"More than fitting for a girl like her," Jon said with a smile.

"So what's she like?"

"Oh, what a question," Jon said biding his time as he leaned back in his chair, "she's…she's kind, compassionate, thoughtful, smart. Much smarter than I. Goodness is she smart. She never ceases to amaze me really."

"Is she pretty?"

"Oh, beautiful! She's got this red hair. Deep red, like sunset. And blue eyes that go right through me. She's got the most mesmerizing smile, and when she speaks…" Jon trailed off as he lost himself in his memories of her.

"She sounds incredible," Sam stated.

'She is," Jon replied, "much too good for me really. She seems to think otherwise, but even so I know I don't deserve her."

"Uncanny," Sam said looking down at Jon's book in amazement.

"What is?"

"The old man," Sam answered, "he had you pegged. It's impressive really. Absolutely astonishing."

'What? The book keeper?" Jon reached for his book, which Sam happily handed back to him, "why?"

"You'll have to read the book to find out," Sam said with a grin.

"What is it about this book?"

"Just read it and you'll see!" Sam insisted.

"Alright!" Jon relented, "I'll read it."

"Good. I promise you, it's just as the old man said. You'll value it more than anyone who might buy it."

"You both seem fairly adamant about it, "Jon observed, "I'm almost starting to believe you."

"Good," Sam replied as he took a chunk of bread off the baguette, "I would not steer you wrong, Jon."

"I appreciate that, Sam," Jon said earnestly. He looked outside to see snowflakes showering the street. He may not have been at the Lannister ball with Sansa, but he was sharing good food with a good friend. He was not with any family, but he still felt content, and for the first time since leaving New England in the summer, he wanted to be nowhere else. He knew it was sure to be short lived, but all the same he'd enjoy it while it lasted.


	16. Chapter 16

**Hey folks! Work has released me for the summer months! And though I still have other jobs to do and such, I have more time to devote to this story. I know I left it for a while, but it was a much needed break. Now, I have more content, and I didn't forget about you lovely readers :) I just had to get my life in order. Self care is important.**

 **Some items of note: Luxeuil-les-Bains is a small commune in France that dates back to the time of the Romans and well into the middle ages. It is close to the Swiss border, and considering the Lafayettes flew over Switzerland many times to go on their missions, it makes sense that a commune in this kind of location would be a place where squadrons would assemble. They weren't necessarily stationed in this particular place, but one like it.**

 **Mourning in the 20th century changed as many things did with the war in place. In many cases black was considered elegant and fashionable in some fashions worn before the war. There was a bit of a shift to wearing black in mourning when the war began, but as it continued and the casualties rose, black started fading out. some would wear white or grey, some even worse purple arm bands due to the fact fabric was in short supply due to the war. However, in the 19th century, mourning was a full, almost spectacle. there were stages of mourning and specific things you had to wear in order to mourn properly even down to what jewelry you wore. And of course, it was socially called for to wear black. this is why a woman like Cersei Lannister, who had to wear black for months, possibly years after her husband's death, would hate the color and not want it at a party.**

 **hope you enjoy this next chapter!**

December 23,1917, Luxeuil- les- Bains, France

Arya sat at the table in the corner trying her best to remain invisible. She chewed on a chunk of bread and sipped on a cup of coffee. Gendry was speaking to a few of the mechanics at the front of the tavern in broken French. He was doing a much better job than when she first started teaching him. When he came back, he had two beers in hand and a grin on his face.

"They were impressed with my French," he said by way of explanation.

"No thanks," She said.

"I never said one was for you," he replied. She smiled at his cheek.

"Something came for you in yesterday's post," Gendry said to her quietly. He reached into his breast pocket and procured a letter. Arya could see it was Sansa's handwriting. Arya eagerly reached for it. Gendry placed it in her hand.

"So who writes to us so often?" Gendry asked. Ever since he learned who she was, he was asking a lot more questions, and ever since she decided she could trust him entirely, she was giving him a lot more answers.

"My sister Sansa," she said, "She's the only one back home that knew I left and what I left to do."

"Sansa," Gendry mulled over the name, "I think I saw a picture of her in the paper once. She's beautiful."

"Yes, she is. She's brave, strong, and unexpectedly scary when she wants to be," Arya said as she tore open the letter.

"You should write to her about me. Tell her of my dashing good looks and irresistible charm," Gendry grinned as Arya threw a piece of bread at him.

"My sister is too good for you," She stated indignantly.

"Okay, okay! I was joking, but I'm glad I can get a rise out of you still. You've been so calm lately. It started to worry me."

"It's the Lannister ball tonight, that's all."

"What does that matter? You hate balls. You do, right? I mean you never told me, but I think I know you well enough to take an educated guess on this one."

"I do. And I always hated this one in particular, but my sister is going to be there and Bran, and they'll be alone. With me running away creating a scandal and Robb and Jon being in the trenches, I just wish…" she didn't finish the sentence. She was worried, but she made her choice. She was here. Sansa and Bran were at home.

"So what does your sister say?" Gendry asked, trying to bring Arya back from wherever it was she went in her head. She did that sometimes. She'd just zone out for a moment, thinking about one thing or another, and Gendry would pull her back. He knew what it was like asking "what if" on a regular basis. It wasn't good for you, and he didn't want Arya driving herself mad over things she could no longer control. Arya came out of her stupor and began to read the letter to herself. Her eyes widened and her jaw dropped.

"What? What is it?" Gendry asked, concern etched on every feature.

"Sansa is wearing black to the Lannister ball!"

'What?" Gendry asked confused. He thought something was actually wrong.

"She says they decided to have the ball despite the war effort, and she is so upset about it she has decided that tonight she will wear black in protest. She is going to walk into Cersei Lannister's house and stand in protest for all to see."

"Women wear black all the time now," Gendry said as he took a swig of beer, "it's the 20th century. A girl like Sansa could wear a black dress if she wanted to."

"Cersei Lannister is still a 19th century woman, and she abhors the color. Too dull, too melancholy, too morbid. After the debacle five years ago when Jeyne Poole wore a fashionable black dress to one of her parties and was publicly exiled, no one dares wear black to her parties…mother will have a fit…"

"You seem surprised that your sister would take such a stand."

"I am," Arya said, "Sansa never causes trouble. She's never taken a stand against anything. Not publicly. She says plenty of things in private, but she is much too careful to let anyone know her true feelings about anything. She says in our world, society affects business and vice versa. To maintain the success of Stark steel, we must maintain pleasant relationships in our social circles as well."

"I see. That's very smart on her part."

"It is, except for the part where she's decided in the middle of a family scandal to create problems with the Lannisters."

"That is out of character," Gendry remarked. He watched as Arya's face fell into one of concern. She scanned the letter again to make sure she didn't miss anything.

"You are worried."

"Of course I am," Arya said quietly, "My sister needs me and I can't be there. I'm supposed to be the one who causes trouble, not her."

"She will be okay." Gendry took the letter gently from Arya's hands and folded it and slid it back in its envelope. He placed his hands on hers. Arya scanned the tavern full of soldiers.

"Gendry, someone will see," she said as she snuck her hands out from under his and into her lap, "You don't hold hands with a soldier, Waters."

"I keep forgetting. I haven't met any pretty soldiers like you," he teased anticipating the swift kick to the shins she always delivered when he said things like that, but it never came. His eyebrows knit together as he looked at her.

"Hey, Stark. It's going to be fine. Your sister can handle herself. You said it: she's strong, and brave, and smart. She can navigate the lion's den just fine." He paused, searching for some sign that she was going to be okay. Her eyes looked down into her cup of coffee, glazed over. She wasn't okay. Hopefully she would be. He would try to make it so.

"The guys were telling me they are really impressed with your flying." Arya looked up. She was sad, her shoulders still slumped, but there was something in her eyes, some small spark that he was hoping would get her out of the place she was in.

"It's true. They've seen your form, your technique. They think you're great. I mean, the Lieutenant is impressed, we know that. You'll be able to fly with a squadron next time, I'm sure of it." Arya's smile started to come back little by little.

"That would be fantastic," she said taking a sip of coffee.

"Though when you make it up in the ranks, I get to brag to everyone that you learned how to be brilliant from me." She laughed a real laugh, straight from her stomach.

"Deal," she said as she tore off another hunk of bread. Gendry leaned back in his chair and took another swig of beer. There it was. There was her old self. His job done, he could now enjoy the rest of the night, sitting in the corner of the tavern with the prettiest-well, the only—girl in the place.


	17. Chapter 17

**New Chapter! Some historical notes for you:**

 **The Spanish War was fought mostly in the Caribbean and in the Philippines right around the turn of the century and it was the first time sensationalized, yellow journalism was used in a big way. American soldiers did die in this war, but what was really telling about this war was that people died, there were close to 3,000 casualties over the course of the few years the war was waged. the papers sensationalized it with how they spun the story. it was more important to give the American people an interesting story than a factual story. Sensationalized news sold papers. Factual, boring news did not. Truly, it was a fight for control of Cuba, Puerto Rico, and the Philippines. America went there under the pretense of helping the revolutionary effort, but there were definitely some selfish reasons for America to be so concerned. These islands had things both Spain and America wanted, so they duked it out and the islands had to suffer. In the end, the Philippines was bought from Spain for 20 million dollars by the victorious party, Puerto Rico and Guam were ceded as U.S. territories, and Cuba was free of Spanish rule. This was all outlined in the Treaty of Paris.**

 **Something about Adoption that I haven't mentioned yet but will mention now, is that it was considered a last resort. some people thought it noble, others thought it sad and desperate. it meant you were incapable of having your own child. For a bachelor to have a child was disgraceful, but for an elderly bachelor like Benjen to adopt a child was bordering on bizarre especially in this society. also, important to remember that there was a whole stigma on non-traditional families. in some parts of the world it as being debunked, but America is a lot more puritanical than any of those countries, especially at this point.**

 **hope you enjoy this one! - FlamingRose**

December 23, 1917, Lannister House

"I can't believe you wouldn't change, Sansa," her mother said as they walked up to the Lannister's door.

"I added color, like you asked." Sansa clipped stubbornly. She was dressed in layers of black with a red necklace she added after her mother tirelessly chided her for being too morose.

"Yes, but—oh never mind. There is no sense in talking to you when you're like this." Catelyn took her husband's arm as Sansa's brother Bran came to his sister's side to offer his arm.

"I think you look brilliant," Bran said to her quietly so their mother could not overhear.

"Really?" Sansa asked, "even the red?"

"Especially the red."

"You don't think it's too dramatic?"

"No. I think it's perfect." Sansa smiled at her brother. He was growing so fast. Soon he'd be taller than her. She bravely walked into the foyer with the assurance of her brother's words. Whatever doubts the argument with her mother put in her head were tucked away when she came into the ballroom. She had no time for doubts.

Sansa discovered a power she didn't know she had as a hush fell over those whose eyes fell on her. Good, she thought, let them stare. Let them talk. Maybe when they talk they'll remember like I do.

"Sansa!' Myrcella greeted her taking Sansa's hands in hers, "It's so good to see you!"

"And You! That dress looks even lovelier in the lamplight."

"Thank you," Myrcella answered graciously, "and you are bold and stunning."

"Thank you."

"I must ask though…black?" she came in a bit closer and whispered, "you know how mother hates that color."

"Yes."

"Are you in mourning?"

"Yes," Sansa answered evenly.

"Goodness! For who?" Sansa took a deep breath. This is it, she thought, this is what you've been waiting for. Make it count.

"No one in particular," Sansa said loud enough for the group of women nearby to hear, "just the young men who have died in the war."

"Oh…well, your necklace is lovely, such red color."

"Yes, for blood spilt." She replied. Myrcella's eyes were wide and her mouth slightly open. She glanced nervously about, perhaps looking for her polite response somewhere in the air. Poor girl doesn't know what to make of me, Sansa thought.

"Boldly and excellently expressed, Miss Stark," a voice said behind her. She turned to find Jaime Lannister with a glass in his hand.

"Uncle Jaime," Myrcellas began, but Jaime wasn't finished.

"I fought in the Spanish War. I lost many friends. I can appreciate a voice to remind us war exists even if we can't see it." He raised his glass to her and she acknowledged his respectful nod.

"I like your friends Myrcella. If they are all like Miss Stark, I don't think I shall worry about you ever again." Myrcellas beamed at the compliment, though Sansa could tell she wasn't sure how to respond to her Uncle's declarations.

"Miss Stark," Jaime said with a charming smile, "Would you do me the honor of dancing with me?" He bowed as he held out his hand. Sansa gave a small curtsy and bow of her head.

"Yes, sir," she replied. She took his hand as he led her out onto the floor. Jaime Lannister was as good a dancer as he was handsome. He was a strong lead and his foot work was impeccable, and with the eyes they were drawing, Sansa guessed others noticed.

'Mister Lannister?"

"Yes, Miss Stark?"

"Everyone is watching us," she said as she looked about the room.

"They are all looking at your dress."

"Mister Lannister—"

"Jaime, please."

"J-Jaime," Sansa began unsteadily, "Forgive me if I speak out of turn, but I did not expect you to be in favor of my statement."

"Every year, my sister puts on these balls, and because there isn't anything I wouldn't do for her, I go. This year I almost reconsidered. I'm glad I came though. I wouldn't have seen you in your dress or heard you say what I am not brave enough to say. So thank you, Miss Stark."

"Sansa, if it pleases you," she answered.

"It pleases me," Jaime said with a smile, "that we have become such fast friends, Sansa." As the dance ended, Jaime Lannister led Sansa off the dance floor in the direction of the refreshment table, but their path was barred by Cersei. She looked livid. Sansa hoped she cared enough for propriety not to make too much of a scene.

"Dear brother, how handsome you look," she almost spat, "And Miss Sansa—what a pretty picture you are today. You seem to be the talk of the evening."

"Yes, she is, and rightfully so. Very few rival Miss Stark's beauty," Jaime answered. Sansa's cheeks flushed. She wasn't sure if it was due to Jaime's compliment, or to the fact she was witness to an argument that should have remained private.

"I have a sneaking suspicion you had something to do with this," Cersei said through her teeth. It was obvious she was coming close to coming undone.

"I have no idea what you are talking about dear sister."

"Jaime," Cersei said, her eyes communicating far more than her voice. Jaime followed her without a word to a spot on the wall. Sansa tried her best to keep a brave face, but the truth was she was nervous. Being on the wrong side of Cersei was the wrong place for her to be, and yet she found herself crossing that line again and again. This time, she'd done so in a very public way. She was surprised she hadn't been kicked out and told never to return like Jeyne Poole.

"I will not have that girl ruin this ball. This is a time for celebration, and she's insulted us by arriving in mourning. And you: How dare you spin her about the dance floor, parading her about in that awful color!"

"That girl as you so kindly put it has friends and family fighting for their lives and yours. She is in mourning."

"Yes, I'm sure, mourning that cousin of hers—or her disgraced sister. If that is any mark as to her and her family's weak will-"

"She is strong, and she understands almost as well as one who has seen war." Jaime cut her off, "and that cousin of hers, the one you find so distasteful because of his parentage, that boy has more in him than your son ever could have. He's out fighting for the ones he loves while your son hides behind your skirt and torments his food before he eats it."

Cersei forgot herself, even in a room full of people. Cersei never forgot herself, so it came as a great surprise to Sansa when she struck Jaime across the face for all to see.

"Remember who you are, Jaime," Cersei said in a low voice.

"I do. That's why I drink,' Jaime quipped.

"Come Miss Stark," he said as he turned and offered his arm, "let us take a turn about the garden. It isn't as expansive as the grounds at the summer house, but I am particularly fond of them anyways."

"Of course Mister Lannister," Sansa said in a daze. She was shocked and at a loss of what to do after such a spectacle, so she took Jaime's arm so as to get out of the room as quickly as possible. It was quiet outside in the gardens; a welcome change from the activity going on inside. It was cold, but not snowing.

"I want to apologize for my sister," Jaime began.

"You really don't have to," Sansa replied, "I have learned to tolerate ill given statements about my family—especially since my sister left. "

"No one knows where she is still?"

"If I know Arya, she's made it halfway across the world by now."

"She's a wild one," Jaime said, "lots of fire in her, that's for sure."

"Yes," Sansa agreed, "without a doubt."

"I'm sorry that your family feels the need to keep up appearances, especially at a time like this."

"Thank you, Mister Lannister."

"Jaime, please."

"Jaime," Sansa said with a smile, "to be honest I felt the same need until quite recently. War has a way of putting things into perspective."

"Yes it does." Jaime was silent for a moment before speaking again. "If you weren't here, keeping up with appearances, where would you be instead?"

"Winterfell," Sansa answered almost immediately, "If I had my way, I'd be there right now."

"Your summer home? In winter?" Jaime chuckled.

"It's beautiful in the winter,"Sansa replied, "it is aptly named, even if that wasn't father's intention when he named it. We spent Christmas there last year. All of us together."

"I see," Jaime said with significant gravity, "I am sure Winterfell is a sight to see at this time of year. It is a fine house. I remember it well. Your family gave a farewell ball for the young men going to war this summer."

"Yes."

"It was a lovely night, a real relief for the families for sure. I am sure Robb enjoyed it. Even Jon seemed to enjoy himself, though I've noticed he's not one for dancing." Sansa thought Jon and Robb's names sounded odd coming out of Jaime Lannister's mouth. She found it curious and a little unnerving that he seemed to have noticed things about Jon in particular. Lannisters unnerved Sansa. Though she was finding some of them to be pleasant company, she still had to be careful.

"Jon is a more reserved type of person than Robb," Sansa replied.

"Though it seems he doesn't mind dancing with you."

"Yes," Sansa answered evenly, careful not to give too much away," he tends to keep to those he knows well."

"I see," Jaime said, "well Miss Sansa, this conversation has been lovely. I find your sense and your considerate nature to be absolutely refreshing tonight." They had just walked inside the house again, and Sansa began to feel the eyes refocusing on them.

"Thank you," Sansa politely replied, "And your company was a pleasure, Mister Lannister—Jaime!" Jaime grinned at her quick correction. Sansa could almost see the shadow of the boy he was once upon a time. He took her hand a kissed it as he bowed. She watched as he disappeared through the crowd. She stood still, not entirely sure what to do with herself. She heard the whispers surround her, but she stood tall and proud.

"Sister," Bran said as he came to stand next to her," you are the talk of the evening."

"So I hear," Sansa said as she caught Mrs. Glover staring in her direction. She scanned the crowd and was stopped by her mother's cold glance.

"Mother does not look pleased."

"No, she doesn't," Bran agreed, "But I am." Sansa looked at her brother as he gripped her hand. She kissed his cheek.

"Thank you, Bran," She whispered, "I truly do not know what I would do without you."

Catelyn was upset—close to livid. Ned never thought Sansa could elicit such a reaction from her mother. That'll teach me not to underestimate my children, Ned chastised himself. He wouldn't say it out loud—if he did his wife would then be livid with him—but he was proud of Sansa.

"She did what she thought was right. Social consequences be damned," Benjen said as he came to stand next to his brother. Ned turned to look at his brother to find a smile beaming with pride.

"That she did," Ned agreed, "she misses him."

"All of them," Benjen observed. He kept his voice low so as not to be overheard by anyone, especially Catelyn.

"Do you have any idea where Arya is? Have you heard from her?" Benjen asked.

"No, but Sansa has. I'm sure of it."

"Has she told you?"

"No. And she won't. I know she won't."

"And loyal," Benjen said, his smile widening ever so slightly, "you raised her well."

"Too well," Ned sighed. Benjen chuckled.

"Perhaps, but Ned, there is no doubt you have fine children. And if tonight is any indication, they are growing up to be fine adults." Ned looked at his daughter who was joined by her younger brother, both standing tall and regal. He knew in his heart, his brother was right. He could not have asked for finer children. It was a proud moment for him, but still something nagged at him.

"Benjen, you're a man of war—you fought for your country I mean."

"Yes," his brother said, almost impatiently.

"So I know this has crossed your mind. Though please stop me if I say something—"

"Ned, speak your mind. It will be faster and easier for both of us if you don't try to spare my feelings."

"Right. Well, I worry about Robb, of course, as I'm sure you worry about Jon."

"Of course."

"And now with Arya, wherever she is, I worry about her too."

"Naturally."

"But I worry most about Sansa." Benjen stayed silent. So did Ned.

"If they don't come back, what will happen to her? If Jon…they've just grown so close."

"They are rather fond of each other," Benjen assented. Ned silently watched the young people dance across the floor. They didn't have a care in the world. If they did, they did better at pretending otherwise than he did.

"You know your children best, and that being the case I won't say anymore on that matter. As for Jon, he is my son, and if I knew anything about my son, it's that he has a frightening sense of duty and honor that led him to leave home to fight in the war, but I also know that the fondness he has for your daughter, the love he has for all of us, may be enough to bring him back."

"How can you be sure he'll come back?"

"I can't," Benjen answered simply, "I can only hope. That's all we really have, you know: hope."

'I suppose you're right," Ned replied as he and his brother settled into a comfortable silence. He watched his children across the room, Bran whispering things to Sansa to make her laugh, and hoped he'd see all his children together again.


	18. Chapter 18

**Hi lovely readers! I got struck with inspiration and I can guarantee that there will be at least three chapters published by next week. I hope you enjoy this short bit right here :) I look forward to reading your thoughts! - FlamingRose**

December 24th, 1917 – A Train Station

Sansa had not thought this through. She knew she hadn't. She just didn't care. It was five in the morning and she was about to get onto the train to Winterfell, only one small bag, no trunk, no chaperone, nothing. She wore her silver and Sapphire pin in her hair, a stark contrast to the plain wool frock she was wearing. In her glove she carried only a train ticket and enough money to possibly buy a coffee and possibly a sandwich if she got hungry. The staff wouldn't be at the house. Only the stable hands and Mr. Cassell would be there to take care of the horses. She would sleep in the stables for all she cared. She couldn't stay there in the city, around all those people: everyone in the city went on with their lives while she rushed about trying to ignore the holes in her life the war had created. She wanted Winterfell.

Since Jaime asked her, all she could do was think about the place she wanted to be. On the carriage ride home, her mother made small talk with her uncle and Father about all the lovely dresses the ladies were wearing and how prettily Myrcella danced about the floor that night and how lovely her smiles were that evening.

"She positively glowed in that lamplight," her mother praised as Sansa stared out the window. She could feel Bran's eyes on her; like he was worried she'd crumble if he didn't watch her. Sansa tried to imagine sugarplum fairies flitting past the houses and trees like she used to when she was younger. She closed her eyes to picture their thin legs dancing along the wind, their hair flashing past in colors of deep purple. She tried her best to picture the sprites, but they just kept changing in her head into Arya, their deep purple tresses turning into Arya's long tangled locks as she ran about the yard. She opened her eyes and tried a different thought. Sprigs of holly against delicate lace wrapped itself about her mind, morphing into the red, green, and white of Margery in her white summer dresses cutting roses in her family garden. She tried to picture the beautiful nutcrackers on the mantelpiece, but their uniforms transformed into U.S. military uniforms and there she was faced with Robb, Theon, and Jon…Jon…She opened her eyes to find her vision blurred by tears that hadn't fallen yet. She couldn't escape the missing pieces. It wasn't Christmas without them here. She hastily wiped away the tears. She saw Bran out of the corner of her eye, a moment of worry on his face, but he was too kind to draw attention to her struggle. Sansa composed herself. She had to be strong. She was going to be strong. There was no time for tears.

At the house, everyone processed to bed. Her parents went to their rooms, and Bran gave her a kiss on the cheek before disappearing into his room. She stood in front of her door for a moment before slowly walking through the threshold. Her room was dark. The dim light from the streetlamps brought a hazy grey light into the room, just enough for her to find her way about and turn on the lamp on her vanity. She unfastened her black gown and let it fall about her ankles. She looked at it on the ground, and knew she should pick it up. She stepped over it to grab her nightgown off her bed. She went to sit at her vanity. She looked at herself in the mirror, her blue eyes staring back at herself. She felt like she was falling deeper into their pools, falling into the ocean again and again. Slowly, methodically, she unclasped the necklace from around her neck and let the red jewels wink at her in the light. Next she let down her hair, carefully brushing through it. She put her brush down on the table when she saw the silver and sapphire hairpin. She touched it carefully, like it was an icicle that would melt under her touch and disappear. As she stood she saw snow falling outside her window. Her fingers curled around the hairpin and almost instinctively, she brought it to her lips. Like a splash of cold water her mind awakened, and she thought again of Winterfell, and a rush came over her. She needed more than anything to be in Winterfell. She hurried about, putting a change of clothes in a bag, and changed out of her nightgown into a Grey, woolen frock and her fur lined winter coat. She put on her most comfortable boots, put the pin in her hair, went to the kitchen to grab money out of the coffee can, and snuck carefully and quietly out the back door. The house was asleep, but she was wide awake, walking through the yard towards the street as snow fell gently about her, the cold a comfort.

She walked to the station in a hurried haze, and somehow here she was: a ticket in one hand, her bag in the other. The train pulled up in front of her, steam reaching out in waves, melting the snow and creating a vacuum of heat about her that lasted seconds as the train came to a stop.

"Train to Newport, Rhode Island!" the ticket taker called from the door. She willed herself to move, and with her head held high she handed him the ticket and walked into an available compartment. She looked out the window to look out at the city. As the train lurched forward, she watched it slip by- building by building, house by house. Her eyes drifted closed and her head fell heavy against the glass. As the snow covered city was left behind, Sansa slept.


	19. Chapter 19

**Hey folks! Man is it good to be back! Here is another update and some history notes for you :)**

 **Newport isn't a big place, so it is plausible that Sansa's walk took an hour. When I was there, I walked from the coast to the Avenue where Winterfell would be at this time and it took me about 20 to 30 minutes.**

 **Summer homes were not used when the family wasn't there, so they covered everything with sheets so as to keep off the dust. When the family came back for the summer, the house staff would open the house in the late spring to air it out and ready it for the family. dusting, mopping, any kind of cleaning was done before the family arrived.**

 **A tea house was common in these gilded age homes. it was a small building comprised mostly of glass doors and windows that was situated in the garden. When the weather was nice afternoon tea or even lunch would be served here so that they could admire the garden and enjoy the summer air.**

 **Oreo cookies were introduced in 1912. By the late 1910s they were a popular snack food. Though someone like Benjen with his money would be expected to get something a little more pricey than cookies that came in at 25 cents for a tin.**

 **Soon I will be posting pictures of these things I mention in my history notes as well as in the story on my tumblr so that you can really visualize the kid of world they are living in. More on that when I have something to show for it :)**

 **Hope you enjoy this chapter! - FlamingRose**

December 24, 1917- Newport, RI

Sansa awoke to the whistle of the train announcing their stop in Newport. She rubbed the sleep from her eyes and grabbed her bag as she got up to walk out onto the platform. It was just as she remembered it from last year. The blankets of shimmering snow gave her new breath and she took it in hungrily. She set her pace towards Winterfell, and prepared herself for the long walk ahead. It was about an hour before she got to the house, but once she did she stared up at it, looking at all its glory and wonder. It was as beautiful as she remembered it being last year. She eagerly ran up the pathway to the front door. There she stood, not sure what to do next. Instead she went around the house and to the back lawn. She stood on the patio staring out at the trees, and the bushes. She looked at the tea house that looked out over the garden. She looked at the tree Robb and Jon climbed in efforts to escape the snowball attacks. She turned to open the French doors that led to the downstairs parlor.

Once she walked into the house she felt as if she were intruding. Everything was covered with cream sheets, a thin layer of dust rested on each one. Her footsteps echoed so loudly in the empty house. Slowly she made her way upstairs, the murals looking down at her from their places on the walls. She held her breath as she walked into the upstairs parlor, the piano covered, the chairs hidden under cream, dust covered sheets. How was it so quiet now when it was filled with chatter and laughter and Bran's playing and her singing? She looked about her. The curtains were drawn to keep the sunlight out. It was dark; everything looked to be in a shade of grey. A thin sliver of light made its way through the crack in the curtain. Here dust particles shone in the sunlight. Sansa reached for them only to bring her fingers back empty handed. She stood there, facing the empty spot where the Christmas tree used to be, the sliver of light barely hitting her hand and then not at all as she let the hand drop to her side as she stared blankly ahead. She didn't understand. Here she was. She was finally at Winterfell. She should have been happy. She should have felt better. She let go of a breath as she let go of the hopeful delusion that this house would change things. Nothing could make it better. She was still alone.

* * *

Stark Household

Ned Stark awoke to the beautiful view of his wife brushing her hair at her vanity table. The sun was peering through the curtains as if to get a glimpse of her radiance so that it could be inspired to shine as brightly as she did. It was a peaceful, almost joyous way to wake up. He was devoid of all worry until she caught his eye in the mirror and he realized as serene a picture as she was, serenity was far from her mind. His wife wore a grave expression that told him she was troubled.

"You must talk to Sansa this morning," she stated. Ned sighed though he tried not to.

"I don't know what it is you wish me to tell her, dear."

"Considering how she blatantly ignored my instruction and made us all look foolish and downright awful at the Lannister ball, someone needs to speak to her."

"Why can't it be you?" Ned groaned. His wife arched an eyebrow at him through the mirror causing him to immediately regret the groan that escaped him before.

"She obviously will not listen to me. Perhaps she will listen to you. Besides, Benjen is arriving tomorrow. I have Christmas dinner to plan. I have place settings and linens to go through and children to watch. I will be busy all day. Take some time out of your reading to talk to her, Ned. She's your daughter. Surely if you present an opinion in accordance with my thoughts on this matter, she will relent. Perhaps she will see her wrongs. She isn't stubborn like our other children."

"Well, I am not so sure about that," Ned muttered thinking back to the night before as they were leaving the house. Sansa could be stubborn if she wanted to be.

"Ned, please," his wife asked. He sighed. He could not refuse her.

"Alright, my dear. I will."

"Thank you." She turned back to the vanity to brush her hair as someone knocked on the door.

"Come in," she called. Rickon came into the room gripping something black in his hands. His face was contorted in what appeared to be confusion.

"Rickon, what's the matter?" Catelyn asked her youngest child as he stood in the doorway.

"I went to wake up Sansa," he said, "but she wasn't there."

"She probably went down to breakfast," Ned replied, "she usually gets up much earlier than you do."

"But her bed was made."

"Sansa typically likes to make her bed when she can nowadays. She doesn't like being a burden on Old Nan, especially with the way her back has been lately."

"This was on the floor," Rickon said holding out the black fabric, "she never leaves things on the floor. Does she?"

"Let me see," Catelyn said as she reached out for the bundle. As she let it unfurl Ned recognized it as Sansa's dress from last night. Ned saw Old Nan walking down the hall and called out to her.

"Is Sansa downstairs?" he asked her.

"I haven't seen Miss Sansa anywhere, and I've been all over this house with the new girl dusting in preparation for tomorrow. She's a worker that one." As Old Nan walked down the hall, Catelyn and Ned exchanged worried glances. They hastily made their way to Sansa's room. Everything was as Rickon said: untouched. The red necklace she wore last night was on the table, and the bed was perfectly made. Ned hurried out of the room and back towards his room to the wardrobe to find his shirt and trousers. As he got dressed, Catelyn got out his shoes, and socks as well as suspenders and jacket. She went back to the drawer to fetch more articles of clothing.

"Catelyn, don't bother with the rest," he said as he slipped on his shoes and socks, "There's no time. Just call anywhere you think she might be: Tyrells, Pooles, Lannisters even. I don't care about the phone bill. Don't call the cops before I get back. We don't want to worry them over nothing."

"What if it isn't nothing Ned?" Catelyn said, her voice trembling. He took her by the shoulders and gently brought her to him.

"Let's not think the worst yet, love. I'll be back soon." He rushed past his youngest son as he put on his coat and made his way quickly towards his brother's house.

* * *

Benjen Stark's Home

Benjen was enjoying the quiet morning in his brownstone house. The coffee was strong and flavorful, the bread was fresh and warm, and the apricot preserves were the perfect sweetness. He had asked his maid to ensure no one bothered him until noon so he could get some reading done. He was looking forward to the solitude of the day. He was almost finished with his morning paper when he heard his doorbell ring followed by a slightly harried confrontation at his front door.

"He doesn't want to be disturbed!" he heard her insist.

"I don't care! This is important!" He heard his brother say as he stormed into the room.

"I'm sorry Mister Stark. I tried to stop him," she said as she glared at Ned's back.

"It's alright, Osha. I'll allow him in." Osha was visibly peeved at his change of heart, but she took a deep breath and left the room. The girl had a temper, but Benjen could handle a temper if it meant he got the loyalty she gave him.

"A new maid," Ned commented as he caught his breath.

"Yes," Benjen replied, "she's a bit temperamental, a fiery one for sure, but she is loyal, smart, a hard worker, and doesn't take my crap to be crude but honest. What's wrong Ned. You are positively flushed. Don't tell me its business."

"It's not. Is Sansa here?"

"No. Why?"

"She's not at home." Benjen put his paper down and stood at attention.

"Sansa," Ned said, "she's gone."

"Gone?"

"Left. Her room is in perfect condition; bed made and hasn't been slept in. No one saw her this morning. And Rickon found her dress from last night in a heap on the floor."

"That doesn't sound like her," Benjen observed.

"I don't know what sounds like her anymore, Ben," Ned said as he slumped into a chair defeated, "She's been acting so strangely since this summer."

"Her brother is at war. It's to be expected. And who knows where her sister is. Her best friend is curing those on the frontlines. Her cousin is out there fighting for his life as well… It can't be easy for her. It changes a person."

"Catelyn is at a loss. Especially after yesterday's incident. And frankly, I've been at a loss for months. I don't know how to reach her. To be frank, I don't know where to even start looking. All the people I would think her to be with are across the water. I need your help."

"Of course."

"I don't even know where to look next," Ned lamented. He looked tired, worn down, old even. He didn't remember his brother ever looking old before. Benjen was sorry for his brother. He didn't know how to alleviate Sansa's suffering, yet he wanted to so badly… _all the people I would think her to be with are across the water…there's a thought._

"I think I know where she might be. I'll make some calls. I will go search for her. In the meantime, you and Catelyn get the house ready for Christmas. Be there for your two boys at home. Keep them calm, distracted. I will be there tomorrow, and if my gut is right, I'll have Sansa with me."

"Call me if you find her," Ned said as he stood and made his way to the door, "And Ben? Please find her."

"I will," he answered calmly, "Go home. Be with your family." He saw his brother out, and then went to find his coat the second the door shut.

"Osha!" he called.

"Yes, Sir?"

"Can you please call my associates at the recruitment centers and the hospitals? Tell them to keep their eye out for a Sansa Stark. I don't want her making any brash decisions she can't take back. If she shows up, tell them they should detain her and call me. And make sure this is kept discreet. I want it to be on need to know basis only. People talk."

"Yes sir."

"Also, I will need a round trip ticket to Newport, Rhode Island. Call ahead at the Newport station and say I will need a second ticket on the way back."

"Newport. She went there? In winter?"

"Osha," Benjen warned.

"Yes sir, I know. I know I should mind my business."

"Then mind it."

"Yes, sir."

"I will be back late this evening. Please wait up for me, and make sure there is tea available upon my return. Also some of those chocolate sandwich cookies you got at the market last week."

"Oreos?" Osha asked, "really, sir?"

"Yes, I love those," Benjen replied almost indignantly, "just don't tell my friends I eat cookies from a tin."

"I'll make sure there is some in the tin then," Osha said as she bit back a smile. Instead of going about her business Osha stood, shifting in her spot before asking, "sir?"

"Yes?"

"Is Miss Sansa alright?" Benjen sighed as he took time to register the worry on his maid's face.

"I don't know, Osha. But she's strong. If she's not, she will be." With that said, he put on his jacket and his hat before making his way out to the carriage that would take him to the train station.


	20. Chapter 20

**Alright Dear readers, I have a good amount of story here for you, and a good amount of notes, too!**

 **A groom took care of the horses and typically lived on the property. in my minimal research I have not found apartments in private carriage houses, but it was not unheard of for the Groom or the trainer to live on the property since horses need constant care; someone to feed them, ride them, exercise them, maintain their coats, and keep them healthy.**

 **Many times a stable hand would be a regular presence to assist the Groom.**

 **Great Expectations by Charles Dickens is all about what makes a true gentleman. It has a lot to do with class and assumptions about gentlemen in society. it is no wonder Sansa would be drawn to a book about an orphan boy who falls in love with a high born girl and falls into company with many in society who have a lot more than he does. It is a fantastic book with a lot going for it and i recommend it. then again, it is one of my favorites :)**

 **Enjoy! and remember to tell me what you think, what your favorite part was, or just tell me all of the feels. I also have them.**

 **much love! - FlamingRose**

December 24, 1917- Winterfell

Sansa sat on the top stair of the second floor landing, staring down the marble steps. It was only her and the murals here. It was quiet, almost stiflingly so. She heard a noise downstairs and recognized it as the French doors opening. She gripped her bag close to her and waited, her heart hammering against her chest. Who would be here?

"Hello?" She heard a voice call, "Who's here?" The footsteps came closer until they were right below her.

"Is anyone there?" Sansa carefully came down the stairs to the landing and looked to the left side stairs. There she found Mr. Rodrick Cassell staring up at her.

"Miss Stark," he said in surprise, "Forgive the state of the house. I was not aware the family was coming. We never received word."

"It's alright, Mr. Cassell. Word was never sent. They don't know I'm here."

"I see," Rodrick said after a moment. He never thought Sansa as the type to run away, and now confronted with her secret escape to Winterfell he wasn't sure how to process the information.

"How did you know I was here?"

"I was bringing in the horses after Podrick and I's lunging. I spotted you going in through the door. I didn't know it was you though. I thought I would investigate." Mr. Cassell stood awkwardly at the foot of the stairs as Sansa stood shifting her bag from hand to hand.

"Have you eaten Miss Stark?" He asked. Sansa shook her head.

"I have some coffee and sweet rolls in the carriage house. Ms. Mordane was kind enough to bring some by yesterday morning and I couldn't finish 'em. Pod is having one now if you don't mind sharing his company."

"Alright," Sansa said with a meek nod of her head. Rodrick took Sansa's bag from her hands and escorted her across the grounds to the carriage house. Sansa had been in the carriage house many times as a girl, but she'd never been in the small apartment her father had been kind enough to model for the Groom and Trainer. Rodrick Cassell did both, and he was the best. To make sure he stayed with the family, Ned Stark transformed the back tack room into an apartment where Rodrick could live. The carriage house was large enough that, even with this back room occupied, there were other places where tack could be stored. However, Sansa noticed as she walked into the small kitchen, that didn't keep Mr. Cassell from bringing tack into his home. There was a broken bridle, one of Arya's she noticed, sitting on the table next to a cup of coffee where Podrick sat. There were stirrups and lead ropes hung up on pegs by the door. There was even a freshly polished saddle on the floor behind the table.

"Sorry for the mess. Winter is hard on the equipment. Too much moisture."

"It's fine," Sansa said, "hello Podrick." Podrick hurried to his feet and hastily bowed his head.

"Miss Stark," he said, "lovely to see you."

"Thank you," she replied.

"Have a seat," Rodrick grumbled as he poured her a cup of coffee. He set it down in front of her and she eagerly held it between her cold, stiff hands. She closed her eyes and she drank the warm liquid. Now that she was in a warm house with food and drink and in a chair, she realized how tired she was and how much her feet hurt.

"How is Lady?" Sansa asked after her horse.

"She's in fine shape Miss," Podrick answered, "A beautiful animal she is."

"Do you suppose, Mr. Cassell, that I could ride her later today? When the sun is out?"

"Of course. As long as you stay away from the cliffs on the far side there. It's too slick over there with all the rocks and ice. You'll want to stay close to the grounds. Are you sure you don't want to lie down first? You seem a bit tired."

"I am a bit tired," Sansa assented.

"You can sleep in there," Mr. Cassell stated pointing towards a small room with a bed, "I'll close the door and Pod and I will be in the stables so you can get your rest."

'Thank you," Sansa said as she did her best to stifle a yawn. Slowly she got herself out of the chair and went into the small room closing the door behind her. She sat on the edge of the bed and removed her shoes one by one. She sighed as her feet ached in relief. She rubbed her arm. She had only packed her nightgown, extra stockings, and an extra woolen frock in her bag, but wool was heavy, and became heavier the more you carried it. Her body was full of small aches, but most of all she was tired from the last twenty four hours. Sansa took off her coat and lay down. Soon, she was asleep.

* * *

Benjen arrived in Newport when the sun was highest in the sky. He made his way to the station office and asked to place a call to Rodrick Cassell on the Winterfell estate.

"Hello, Rodrick. Benjen Stark. Is Sansa on the property still?"

"She awoke about half an hour ago. She went out for a ride. I can send Podrick to the station for you if you like."

"Don't trouble yourself, Rodrick. I'll take a ride from one of the young men here."

"The missus must be worried, her girl running off that way."

"We all were. Thank goodness she's in Winterfell, eh?"

"Yes, thank goodness."

"Thank you Rodrick. I'll see you soon." Benjen hung up the phone and brought his collar up around his neck to block the cold wind. He hailed one of the sleds outside the station.

"To the Winterfell estate please." Benjen sat in the seat, contemplating what to do when arrived in Winterfell. What would he say? How would he talk to his niece? He was never very good with girls. He'd never been married, Lyanna was the closest thing he had to a sister, and she behaved very differently than Sansa. Lyanna had a spirit more like Arya's, but then again that same fire seemed to be making itself known in Sansa in unexpected ways. Young girls were tricky. He wasn't sure he knew the right things to do or right words to say, but she was family. He had to try. If anything, he'd try for Catelyn and Ned.

When Benjen arrived at Winterfell, he made his way to the carriage house directly. He called out for Rodrick, and got no answer so he went to the stables. There he found him. He was waiting at the door of the stables, staring out over the horizon. Benjen followed his gaze and saw what he was waiting for. There in the distance, coming closer and closer, was Sansa riding her horse Lady at a soft canter. She slowed her horse down to a trot and then a walk with such commanding ease. She was wearing a simple frock, but he noticed that she was wearing the hairpin that he and Jon had gotten her for Christmas. His niece was a vision. Regal was the appropriate word. It made his heart ache to know how much pain was tied up in her perfectly postured frame.

"Uncle Benjen," Sansa said, obviously surprised to see him there.

"Hello Sansa," he said. She dismounted her mare and approached her uncle with cautious eyes.

"Has father asked you to fetch me?"

"I decided to come fetch you. Your father just came to my door worried sick." Sansa dipped her head in remorse.

"I didn't mean to worry him."

"I know," he replied, "Do you think you ran Lady too ragged on your ride?"

"No," Sansa replied, much more comfortable with the topic of horses, "she seems to like the cool air. She wasn't tired when we came back. Not one bit."

"Then perhaps you could indulge me with a gentle walk down the lane then? I'll take Noble," he said referring to one of Ned's horses.

"Noble is a fine horse, sir," Podrick piped up, "and he hasn't been out in a few days."

"It's settled then," Benjen replied, "Podrick, could you prepare him for me while I speak to Mr. Cassell?"

"Of course, sir," Podrick replied as he rushed to retrieve the horse.

"Has she said anything?" he asked Rodrick once Sansa and Podrick were out of earshot.

"Not much, sir," he said, "She went into the main house this morning. I found her on the stairs. I suppose she was just sitting there outside the upstairs parlor. I brought her back here, gave her something to eat. She asked after her horse and asked to ride. I told her to rest so she slept for a few hours before waking and asking to ride her horse again. She's just gotten back."

"And in that time—perhaps over coffee or while grooming her horse—did she say anything to you? Or Podrick?"

"Nothing, sir," Rodrick answered with a shake of his head, "she seems…off…if you don't mind my speaking out loud."

"Of course," Benjen replied, "thank you for your candor, Rodrick." Soon, Podrick came out of the stable with Noble saddled and bridled.

"Thank you, Podrick," He said as he took the reins and mounted the horse. He let Sansa take the lead as they walked side by side down the path towards the lane.

"It's been a long time since I rode a young gelding like this one. Such a fine horse." Benjen said breaking the silence.

"Noble is a beautiful beast," Sansa agreed, "Though Father said it took a while to break him." She was quiet again for a while. Benjen waited until she spoke again.

"I think that is so sad," Sansa said quietly, "that a horse must be broken in order to live among us."

"I don't think horses are broken. Not really," Benjen answered, "I think they choose to listen to us because they grow to understand us. A horse is much bigger than a man after all. They could easily trample us. An animal of that size does not succumb to a thing as small as a human when they could easily overtake us, make us bleed even."

"That's an awful way to think about it, Uncle Benjen," Sansa cried.

"Yes, but it makes you feel better doesn't it?" Sansa smiled.

"It does actually," she laughed, "much better."

"Sansa, your parents want you home."

"I don't want to be there," she answered.

"Bran and Rickon need you there. You're the only sister they have right now."

"Arya is out there, they still have her," Sansa said, her jaw set.

'Yes, they do," Benjen said gently, careful with every word, "but she isn't here. Not like you. They need you, your parents need you."

"Why does everyone need me? What about what I need?" Sansa snapped, and automatically looked down at her hands holding the reins. They gripped the leather so tightly; Benjen guessed her knuckles were white under those gloves.

"I'm sorry," Sansa said, composing herself.

"It's alright, child. You are hurting." They continued on in silence. After a while he turned Noble back towards the house and Sansa followed on Lady.

"When we get back to the house, what will happen?" She asked after a moment.

"It's up to you. I am here to retrieve you, but if you do not wish to go with me, I will not force you. However, I have a ticket if you want it." Sansa nodded. There was a pause before she spoke again.

"The house is so dark," she remarked, "everything is covered and the curtains are drawn."

"Yes. It must be preserved for summer." They continued the rest of the way in silence. Benjen handed the reins to Podrick and asked him to take Noble out for a proper ride once he returned from taking him and Sansa to the station. Podrick jumped at the opportunity with a grin and hurried to prepare the small surrey for the trip to the station. Sansa dismounted and asked to tend to her horse herself. She brought the reins over Lady's ears and led her into the stable.

"I will go back with you, Uncle," She said looking at Benjen. He nodded.

"I will retrieve your things from the carriage house," he said. She nodded. He turned to follow Rodrick to the house allowing Sansa some time alone. They reached the house and Benjen sat down at the table at Rodrick's invitation.

"Here are her things," Rodrick said bringing them out of the tiny room.

"Thank you, Rodrick. Truly."

"Of course," he replied. He and Benjen walked out of the carriage house. Benjen took a seat placing the bag on the floor of the surrey. Sansa emerged from the stable and climbed in next to him. They went the entire way to the station in silence, and continued in the same manner as they boarded the train. Sansa stared out the window watching the trees pass by one by one. She tried counting them so as to occupy her mind and not to think of what was missing.

Benjen watched his niece over the pages of the book he was trying to read. He was going to spend the afternoon finishing it, but he hadn't gotten through five pages since this morning. Instead he preoccupied himself in reading the creases and involuntary nuances of expression on his niece's face. He watched as she gradually hid her conflict and hurt behind a well-crafted mask. He wondered how long she had been working on this look. It saddened him she felt the need to put on such a mask for her family. If only she acknowledged her pain. She was so troubled, but so stubborn. She would never admit to struggling. She would put on a mask of strength to the end, hardening by the day to protect every exposed nerve. _She'll turn to stone if she's not careful_ , he thought _._

It was dark when they returned home. As the train pulled up to the station, Sansa looked out at the city she had left that morning with a face void of feeling. Her cool demeanor intact, she brought her chin up as she stood and made her way onto the platform.

"Alright, Sansa, it's time to get you home. Tomorrow is Christmas." Sansa stopped at the mention of the holiday. Benjen turned around to look at her.

"Come on now,' he coaxed, "it's time to go home. It's late."

"I've changed my mind," she said. Benjen's eyebrows shot up into his hairline.

"It's a bit late for that, don't you think?"

"No, I don't mean—I want to stay with you."

"Why?" he asked incredulously.

"Please?" she implored. Benjen sighed.

"Yes," he answered, "yes you can."

"Thank you," she said as she continued walking. Benjen stopped at the conductor's office and asked to use the phone. He settled himself on the corner of the desk as Sansa sat primly on the edge of a bench outside the office wringing her hands nervously. She hummed to herself to keep from eavesdropping on the conversation going on in hushed tones on the other side of the door.

"Hello?" answered Ned. His voice came across the line tense and gravelly.

"Ned. I have her,"

"Oh thank god," he cried, "is she coming home?"

"Yes, in time. We are at the train station now….um, she wants to stay with me for the night."

"With you?"

"Yes." There was a palpable pause on the other end of the phone. Benjen shifted from the uncomfortable silence.

"I am—uh..I'm surprised."

"So am I," Benjen replied with a shake of his head, "I'll have Osha prepare a room for her and we can meet with you tomorrow."

"Alright, brother. I'll see you tomorrow. And thank you, from the bottom of my heart."

"Of course," Benjen replied, "we're family, Ned." He then called Osha to tell her what to do before he hung up the phone and turned to open the door. She stopped humming and stood waiting for his verdict.

"You're coming home with me. Osha will make you a bed." She let go of a breath and smiled in relief.

'Thank you, Uncle Benjen. This means a great deal to me."

"Of course child," he said, not sure why she was so glad to be going to his small brownstone to sleep in a bed that was not her own.

Osha opened the door for them as they stumbled in, tired from the excitement of the day.

"There is tea and cookies like you asked, sir. I put them in the study."

"Thank you Osha," Benjen said gratefully, "could you please put this bag in Miss Sansa's room. Please?"

"Yes, of course." She went up the stairs to the room and Benjen led Sansa into the study. There on a small table were Oreos and a pot of tea. He poured her a cup, She took it gratefully and sipped it slowly.

"Oreos?"she asked.

"I love them," he said as he took a bite of one, "don't tell your mother," he said with a wink. She smiled as she took another sip of the warm tea. It was lavender and rose brew. He made a note to commend Osha for her selection in teas. He watched Sansa as she took in her surroundings. She looked about the study, and he could see she wanted to see the books on the shelves, reading the titles.

"Make yourself at home my dear," he said gesturing to the room, "if there's one you'd like to read just take it off the shelf." Her smile widened as she stood and let herself get drawn in by the books. They stayed in comfortable silence as she took books down and put them back one by one flipping through the pages and he munched on cookies and sipped on his tea content to enjoy a moment of respite in his home.

"This one," she said holding out a book. From what he could tell, it appeared to be Dickens. Great Expectations.

"That's an ambitious read, but one of my favorites. It's not for the faint of heart."

"Do you think me faint of heart, Uncle?" Sansa challenged. Benjen cracked a smile.

"Far from it, Sansa," he said, "Go on and take it. You can have it for as long as you like." He stifled a yawn and took his last swallow of tea. He called Osha in to take the plates and cups to the kitchen.

"Well, the pot is empty. That is the signal for bed. You may stay up a while to read. Just make Goodnight dear girl. I will see you in the morning."

"Goodnight Uncle," Sansa said. She sank into one of the arm chairs next to a lamp and opened the book gently. Benjen bent down and kissed the top of her head before walking to the door. He turned one last time to catch a last glance at his niece, curled in the seat ravenously reading the tome of a book. It was the first time he'd seen her peaceful, almost happy, since Jon left. He hoped it would last for a long time and then some.


	21. Chapter 21

**Hello lovelies! I felt a great catharsis while writing this. I have no history notes this time around, but I do warn there's a lot of feeling here.**

 **I don't know about you, but I feel like Benjen Stark is an underrated character. I think he is just the coolest. I have a lot of feelings. anyways, I hope you enjoy this latest chapter :) much love! - FlamingRose**

Christmas Day, 1917, Benjen Stark's Residence

Sansa awoke in the strange room and forgot where she was. She bolted upright, forgetting for a moment what happened last night. Then she remembered: she stayed with Uncle Benjen. Last night she read the first couple chapters of Great Expectations. She'd taken it with her to her room last night and fell asleep clutching it tight to her chest. Sansa understood why it was one of her uncle's favorites, though it was sad. But a sad book is what she wanted. She felt like Charles Dickens was sharing in her sadness. It was like he understood her melancholy, and somehow that alleviated a good deal of her pain. She hurried out of bed and looked out the window. The sun wasn't too high in the sky. She had time to go out before she had to leave for church, but she didn't want to waste any time. She quickly grabbed the extra frock out of the closet and dressed herself quickly. She wasn't sure what to do with the silver hair pin. She didn't want to let go of it, not today, but wearing it would draw attention to her. She didn't want that either. She opted for tucking it carefully into her frock's pocket. She hurried downstairs to grab her coat when she was met by Osha in the hallway carrying a pitcher of warm water.

"Miss Stark," she said, "good morning."

"Good morning, Osha. Could you tell my Uncle I went out for a short walk? I will be back in time for breakfast."

"Aye, I will," she replied, her eyes curious. Osha didn't ask though. She thought it better if she didn't know. Sansa was grateful. She didn't want to explain herself. She hastened to put on her coat and made her way out in the crisp morning. She set a quick pace down the sidewalk. She had to make it back for breakfast.

A couple hours later, Benjen came down to breakfast still not fully awake and sore from his day of travel. He was not used to sitting for that long in one day.

"Good morning Osha," he greeted his maid.

"Good morning, sir," she said as she poured him a cup of coffee, "Miss Sansa went for a quick walk this morning, but she said she would be back for breakfast."

"Well, it's breakfast now, where is she?" he said as he looked about at the feast of poached eggs, asparagus tips, English muffins, toast, and smoked salmon as well as fruit preserves in what seemed like almost every appetizing color. He took in the spread before him with a smile. Just as he was going to press Osha for an answer, Sansa entered the room with flushed cheeks and shallow breaths.

"Ah! Here you are!"

"Sorry Uncle, I took longer than I expected. I rushed home to make up for time."

"It's quite alright. I'm surprised you woke up as early as you did after the day you had yesterday. Have a seat. I'll be taking you home before church," he said as he stabbed an asparagus tip.

"Actually, I was hoping I could go to church with you," she said quickly, almost desperately. Benjen froze, the Asparagus tip halfway to his mouth.

Sansa shifted uncomfortably in her seat. Her uncle was looking at her like she'd grown a second head.

"You don't want to go with your family?"

"You are my family Uncle," she said, evading his question.

"You know what I mean," he replied. She tried her best to maintain a blank look as he scrutinized her. She hoped he wouldn't pry. How could she possibly explain it all?

"Are you sure?" he asked.

"Positive," she replied with a relieved sigh.

"Alright," he said taking a bite of his food. He hummed with satisfaction and a smile, the out of character occurrence already out of his mind. Satisfied, Sansa put a couple pieces of toast on her plate and spread a dollop of fruit preserves on each.

"Tell cook he's outdone himself," he remarked.

'Yes sir," Osha replied. Benjen went back to his meal, blissfully unaware of how little his niece was eating and how restless she seemed to be. Sansa reached into her pocket and grasped at the hairpin. As soon as her palm felt the stones dig into her skin she relaxed and her anxieties were soothed. As she breathed out, she tried to ignore the dull ache that lived in her ribcage. It had been there for months, but now more than ever, it was persistent.

"Alright Sansa, are you ready?" Benjen asked as he stood from the table.

"Yes," she said eagerly as she hurried to the hall to grab her coat. They made their way to the carriage that was waiting to take them to the church. They got in and spent the entire journey in silence. Sansa gently ran her thumb across the stem of the rose hairpin as she stared out the window. Benjen looked at her, wondering why she had such a face of determination. She looked like she was going into battle by going to church.

When they walked into the church, he understood why she was so determined on the carriage ride over. Walking through the isles he heard whispers. _What was she thinking? Wearing black at a Lannister ball! All those Starks seem to be impulsive. I thought Sansa would rise above. Poor thing. And her frock. It's Christmas. Does she not have regard for appearance today of all days? Perhaps it's another statement._

The murmurs stopped once the service began, but once it ended the commentary started all over again. He made sure to walk briskly and was relieved to see her ignoring their whispers. She smiled and she kindly made small talk with anyone who approached her. She was the epitome of pleasantness. She was good. Benjen made his way past the throng of people, not sure what to do when he reached the edge of the sidewalk. Sansa made the choice for him as she automatically hung a right, walking at a quick pace. He hurriedly waved off the carriage and jogged a few steps in order to keep up with her. He walked in a bit of a haze, following the young girl but not really thinking or paying attention to where she was going. All he knew was that Ned would never forgive him if after fetching his daughter on Christmas Eve, Benjen just lost her on Christmas morning. Before long, Benjen noticed the headstones cropping up in his peripheral. He brought his head up and brought his eyes into true focus. They were in the graveyard. Sansa was standing uncertainly among the graves, looking lost for the first time since leaving Winterfell. Her determination faltered. He realized what she was looking for and put a hand on her shoulder guiding her to the left.

"This way," he said gently as he led her to Lyanna and Rhegar's graves. Once they got there, Benjen took a step back. He watched as Sansa took a tentative step forward. She seemed to be bracing herself against something before taking the last two steps until she was in front of the headstones.

Sansa kneeled in front of the graves of Jon's parents and carefully brought out a small wreath of pine needles she swiped from the Glover's backyard that morning. It was small, and a mix of brown needles from the ground and green needles from the tree. It wasn't her best work, but it was better than last year's wreath.

"I hope William and Maisie passed on your son's message last year," she started awkwardly, "I didn't know he visited you every year at Christmas, so I want to apologize in case you were upset with me. I'm trying to make up for it." She shifted about anxiously. How to continue was eluding her, but she took a breath and tried again.

"He said he would bring you a wreath every year, so I thought I'd bring one. It's not the best I've made, but I tried my best on short notice. I don't know what Jon would talk about when he'd come here to see you, but I will try my best." Saying his name took a bit of her breath away and she had to start again.

"He's gone to fight for us. He says he's protecting us. I wish sometimes that he didn't feel like he had to do that. I know he's brave, and he's strong. And he always protected people here. It makes sense he'd do it somewhere else in the world. I'm sure you are very proud of him. He's really incredible, but you know that. You're his parents…I'm sorry I am not very good at this…Anyways, I know he would be here himself if he could. I'm just filling in. He misses you and he loves you, and I guess in a way I also love you. That sounds strange, sorry. It's just—you gave the world him, and he's very important to me. I wish I could have met you both…Merry Christmas." Sansa felt the tightness in her chest expand and the lump in her throat grow. She felt a hand on her shoulder. For a moment her heart skipped with hope until she remembered it was impossible for him to be there. She closed her eyes and struggled to breathe. She just wanted him here with her safe and sound.

"Sansa," she heard her Uncle say as he knelt down next to her in the snow, "Is this why you insisted in staying with me yesterday?" Sansa could only nod.

"You did a good job." He said to her. She opened her eyes and looked out past the headstones to a tree, its branches stretching out over the sky. She could almost picture him standing there, looking out like he had last Christmas in Newport in a strange graveyard, not sure what to do with himself. She closed her eyes and tried to breathe in the winter air. She thought of his lips against her forehead, the way his hair sometimes did what it pleased in the wind, his kind eyes, the dimples he had when he smiled, that time in the upstairs parlor on Christmas day when he almost kissed her, lips against lips, and dear god why hadn't she been braver, more reckless, and made the first move? Then she'd know what it was like. Then again, if she knew, would his absence be even harder for her to endure? She opened her eyes and let go of a shaky breath.

"I miss him," she said meekly, her voice barely above a whisper, "I miss him so much it hurts." The tears were filling her eyes quickly. Now she'd said the words out loud, and now that they were out, the rest followed suit, the words tumbling out of her mouth barely leaving room for breath.

"Every day, I wake up, and there is an ache in the center of me, and for a frightening moment I think I can't move. But I somehow remember to get up, breathe in and out. I walk, I sit, I eat and talk and smile when all I want to do is just stop…I want to drop everything and go out in search of him. But I remember how many have already left, how many holes are in our own family, and I can't leave. I can't leave them, but I can't stay here." As she spoke, the tears fell and her voice quivered more and more with every sentence. Her hands trembled as she sniffled, sobs threatening to escape from deep within her.

"I can't stay here. Not when he's there, fighting for his life…And I'm so scared when I think of him out there…how he may never…" She couldn't finish the dreaded sentence. A sob escaped her and the floodgates opened. There was no stopping it. Benjen wrapped his arms around her and she fell into her Uncle as she cried.

"I know," he murmured into her hair, "I am, too." He held her there, saying soothing words to her and stroking her hair. He knew he'd look a mess walking home with his trousers soaked from the snow, but it didn't matter. Sansa could cry as long as she wished. He's stay here with her.


	22. Chapter 22

**AN: Hey friends, it has been way too long. But I finally got away from audition prep and depression for long enough to write. i feel a good long run coming on, so I will hopefully update this story as much as i should. I have no history notes this time around. I hope you enjoy this newest update :) much love! - FlamingRose**

Christmas Day 1917- Ned and Catelyn Stark's Home

Benjen and Sansa walked up the steps of the Stark residence in newly cleaned clothes that were void of moisture. They looked presentable enough, Benjen thought. He didn't think he did such a terrible job. Considering he was a bachelor with no daughters of his own, he managed fairly well in the last twenty four hours. The door opened to reveal Ned and Catelyn Stark. Ned smiled in relief. Catelyn came bursting through the threshold to wrap her arms tightly around her daughter.

"Oh Sansa!" she breathed, "Never scare me like that again!"

"We were so worried," Ned said as he cradled her cheek in his hand. He and Catelyn wrapped their arms across her shoulders to guide her inside the house.

"Sorry Father, Mother. I didn't mean to scare everyone."

"I know my dear," Ned murmured as he planted a kiss on the top of her head.

"But Uncle Benjen did take good care of me. And Osha washed my clothes, too."

"Bran! Sansa's home!" Rickon called from the top of the stairs. He came vaulting down the bannister and into his eldest sister's arms. She staggered back with a laugh as she hugged her youngest brother. Bran met Sansa with a tentative smile and a tender hug.

"Come now Miss Stark! It's time to get you cleaned up for dinner!" Old Nan called from the top of the stairs, "I'll prepare a warm bath for you." Catelyn guided her daughter up the stairs, not once letting go of her. Benjen looked at his brother and waited for him to speak.

"I hope she wasn't too much trouble."

"Oh don't be ridiculous Ned," Benjen barked with laughter, "Out of all your children Sansa is the least trouble. She was a fine house guest." Benjen waited for Catelyn and her children to disappear upstairs before speaking again.

"I need to speak to you regarding Sansa."

"Yes. I am sure you have plenty to report."

"You could say that."

"Would you like anything? Perhaps some tea? Or a scotch?"

"Tea would be fine. I'll save the scotch for after dinner."

"I'll have Meera bring it to the study."

"Meera? She's a little young to be working already isn't she?"

"I suppose, but her mother is sick so she decided to fill her post until she recovers. She's a sweet girl and she is learning quickly according to Nan. She brews a fine cup of tea, that's for sure. Shall we?" Ned asked as he gestured towards the study. Benjen nodded. He stepped into the carpeted and quiet room. The windows allowed for soft winter light to filter into the room. There were books on every wall, and a portrait of their father, Rickard Stark. It wasn't as grand as the one in Winterfell, but it was lovely all the same. The fireplace had been lit and a breakfast tray was still on the side table next to one of the arm chairs with a barely eaten breakfast. Benjen guessed Ned had spent every waking hour in this study pacing in front of the phone ever since he left his house yesterday morning with the news that Sansa was missing. He'd probably been here, anxiously looking out the window waiting for her to return to him.

"A lovely selection of Dickens you have here, Ned," Benjen stated as he scanned the titles on the north wall.

"It's not as expansive as yours, I'm afraid," Ned remarked, "though I know I have many more books on history than you do."

"I'm not so sure about that," Benjen teased, "I have one of the greatest selections of military history than anyone on this side of the Atlantic."

"Your pride will get you in trouble one day Ben," Ned stated, almost without humor.

"One day? Ha! It already has! On countless occasions I assure you!" Benjen tried breaking the tension, but he had never been very good at that. Ned was nervous and antsy, pacing the floor in front of the fireplace. Benjen took a breath as he settled into one of the armchairs. Meera came into the room with tea on the tray.

"Ah, thank you Meera," Ned said, "I'll pour the tea thank you. That will be all." She placed the tray on the desk and quickly removed the breakfast tray from that morning before leaving the study with a small bow and closed the door. Ned poured Benjen a cup of tea and handed it to him. He didn't bother pouring himself a cup. Instead he went back to pacing the floor.

"It's hard for me to enjoy such a fine cup of tea with you pacing nervously about like some caged animal."

"Oh, out with it already! You said you had things to say in regards to Sansa."

"I did," Benjen conceded.

"Then tell me!" Ned said impatiently. Benjen held his brother's gaze. He did not stand from his chair. He made no changes to his posture. He was the epitome of calm composure.

"In good time, Ned, but I do believe you should have some tea. Perhaps a sandwich or a cookie that Meera had so nicely arranged on this plate for us. I know you haven't eaten since you found her missing. A bit of food would do you some good." Ned didn't budge.

"Fine," Benjen drawled, "if you aren't going to eat at least have some tea." With a few more suspicious glances towards his brother Ned begrudgingly poured himself a cup of tea. Benjen looked at the chair next to him in front of the fireplace and back to Ned, guiding his brother to relax. Ned sat in the chair slowly, but Benjen could tell the tension remained in every muscle. The man was a bundle of nerves. Benjen supposed if he went through what Ned had gone through he would be a bundle of nerves, too.

"I was as surprised as you when Sansa asked to stay with me last night. I was going to deliver her after breakfast this morning so she could attend mass with you, but she asked to stay through mass as well."

"That is odd."

"I thought so too, till I discovered why," Benjen paused as he took a sip of his tea, "After mass, Sansa visited Lyanna and Regar's graves in the churchyard." Ned gave his brother an inquisitive look.

"She put down a wreath that I can only guess she made up of nettles she found on her morning walk. Osha said she was up long before breakfast was served and said she was going for a quick walk. Does she usually go on walks in the morning?"

"She hasn't been on many walks since Arya left. Since Bran and Rickon returned home she has gone on a few but never before eleven." Benjen mulled over Ned's response as he sipped his tea. He nodded and hummed in understanding.

"What? What is it?" Ned asked impatiently. Benjen looked at his brother, a glint in his eye like he saw something no one else did. It reminded Ned of his son Bran. He seemed to have that look a lot more the older he got. He supposed it was the kind of look men who faced death eventually developed. His poor boy had to face death at a much younger age than he deserved.

"Benjen you know how I hate that silent stare. Just tell me."

"Every Christmas morning after church, Jon and I would walk to the churchyard where his parents are buried. We put a wreath on their graves and Jon will sit and speak to them," Benjen paused as he attempted to calm the emotions stirring within him. Ned watched his brother. He knew what it was to fear for a son.

"Last Christmas we went to Winterfell. Jon, though happy to be with you all, felt…out of place. He always feels that way. Sansa made great efforts to make him feel welcome."

"Yes, I remember their interactions quite well."

"On the way back from Winterfell Jon told me she had made a wreath out of twigs and placed it on a couple's grave in the churchyard. She told Jon that maybe that couple could pass on his message to his parents. It was a very sweet thing for her to do for him."

Ned smiled for the first time in the last two days "That sounds like my Sansa," he murmured.

"Yes, well I believe she decided to take it upon herself to visit Lyanna and Raegar this year on Jon's behalf."

"My girl is too thoughtful for her own good at times," Ned replied with a sigh, "That explains why she insisted on waiting till after church to come home, but that doesn't explain why she went to Winterfell."

"She wanted to be close to Jon. It's the same reason she wanted to stay with me, why she wanted to visit Jon's parents. Winterfell is where it all began for her."

"What began?"

"What Catelyn has been worried about, what you and I have been noticing over the months, and what everyone may already suspect after their display at the train station. It's the big scandal that should be avoided at all costs," Benjen concluded facetiously.

"Scandal—?"

"Jon is of inferior parentage, and he is adopted by a bachelor, no mother at home, a less than traditional upbringing. Sansa is a well-bred lady of good family stock, wealth, and social standing. We don't want to see it that way, and I dare say you and I don't, but everyone else does. " Benjen took a final sip of tea. He got up to place the saucer on the tray. He had every intention of sitting back down, but breaking this news to his brother was proving to be more difficult than he anticipated. He instead decided to remain standing. It was now his turn to pace.

"Ned, your daughter said some things to me in the last couple of days that have me thinking that we were right. Catelyn was definitely right. The feelings between Jon and Sansa over the last year have exceeded that of familial fondness." Benjen stood staring at his brother watching as the realization started making its way across his face.

"Are you saying my daughter is in love with your son?"

"I am," Benjen said, "or at least, her feelings are coming close to that."

"Did she tell you this?"

"No, and I wouldn't expect her to. She is still attempting to hide that from all of us in one way or another. I am not even sure she realizes her feelings have grown to be that deep." Benjen opened his mouth to continue, but hesitated.

"There's more," Ned stated, "I see it on your face, Ben. You might as well tell me."

"The girl is trapped, Ned. She feels helpless. So she ran. She didn't know what else to do. She wanted the feeling to go away."

"I don't understand," Ned said behind his hand, "She's safe here."

"She doesn't want to be safe, Ned. She wants to be useful."

"So what do you reccomend? I allow her to follow in Margery's footsteps? Go be a nurse? Follow Arya to do whatever the devil she's doing?" Ned said as he rose, his voice rising with him.

"Ned—"

"No! I will not allow another child of mine to risk their lives for this damned cause. She must stay here!"

"You can't keep her here!" Benjen stated as he stepped forward to match his brother.

"The hell I can't!"

"She deserves to be free, Ned," Benjen said keeping his voice dangerously low, "if you aren't careful, the closer you and Catelyn keep her to you, the further you will push her away. Allow her some freedom."

"So I should just let her do whatever she pleases, is that it?"

"No. I'm saying if she asks to be useful, let her." Ned took a few breaths processing what his brother was telling him. They stood in front of each other, silent now, and thinking of each other. Ned, wondering if his brother was right, and Ben, hoping his brother saw some sense in his words. Their time was interrupted by a timid knock on the door.

"Enter," Ned called. The brothers turned to see Meera standing in the doorway.

"Dinner is ready sirs," she stammered.

"Thank you Meera," Ned sighed, "we will be there in a moment." Meera bowed and carefully closed the door behind her. Benjen took a few carefully calculated steps back, giving Ned room to process what he had said.

"Just think about it, Ned." Ned nodded his head in resignation. Benjen looked down at the ground. He had a feeling it would be a quiet dinner.

* * *

Meera hurried down the hall to alert the rest of the Starks that dinner was ready. She stopped short at the foot of the stairs and gave a yelp of surprise.

"Master Bran!" she chastised, "You gave me a fright!"

"I'm sorry Meera. I didn't mean to startle you." Meera composed herself and gave a clumsy curtsy to the young man. He'd grown much taller since she'd seen him last those years ago. She tried to maintain her footing but stumbled. She braced herself against the wall so as not to tumble over herself onto the floor. Bran suppressed a chuckle as she shot him a glare.

"There's no need to laugh at my misfortune, sir."

"And there's no need for curtsies and calling me Sir, Meera. We're the same age."

"I work for the family. You are the family," she stated awkwardly, but she kept herself from looking away from him. He looked troubled.

"My uncle and Father were arguing," Bran stated.

"I don't know."

"I do. They were speaking quite loudly. It's about Sansa. They are worried about Sansa."

"I don't know," Meera repeated, "I simply make the tea, and announce dinner. I am meant to tell the rest of the family upstairs."

"Don't let me keep you," Bran said with a nod. Meera bowed her head as she made her way up the stairs.

"Meera," Bran said stopping her on the step he sat on. She kept her hands clasped tightly in front of her as she waited.

"Yes, sir?"

'Please don't call me sir," he said. She considered disregarding her instruction. If old Nan heard her being so familiar with one of the family she would get an ear full. But she heard tightness in his voice that made her reconsider.

"Yes? ..Bran?" she said quietly. She stood staring forward towards the hall, not daring to look at the young man. She watched for Old Nan, worried she would appear around the corner.

"I'm worried about Sansa, too." Meera stood still, listening. "She hasn't been the same since they all left. She is sad, I know she is, but she doesn't cry. She just stares. And works. And stares. But she doesn't cry." Meera looked about the stairs, careful not to be seen before she slowly sank down to kneel on the steps. She slowly turned her head to look at Bran, his gaze far off and distant. Meera could see the pain behind the distance.

"She isn't the same, Meera," Bran continued, "Neither are Mother and Father. I just want them back. I want my sister back. Both of them. And Robb. And Jon. Why did this have to happen to us?" Meera watched Bran, his face contorted in perplexed pain. She didn't have anything to say. She didn't know what it was like. Her brother was at home working with her father. He left early in the morning, but he always came back home for dinner. She didn't know what it was like to have half of your family gone and not come back. She stayed silent, but reached out a hand to cover his. She gripped Bran's hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. He pulled away from his distant place for a moment to look at her. She smiled briefly, as best as she could, and then looked down before releasing his hand and coming back up to standing on the step.

"Dinner is ready, sir," she said in a clear voice, "if you'll excuse me, I must tell the others."

"Thank you Meera," Bran replied as he turned to look back out into the air for a moment. He turned to look after her as Meera climbed the last few steps to the second floor and turned the corner. He slowly stood up to go to dinner. He took his time walking to the dining room. Christmas would not be the same this year. The absences would be overbearing.


End file.
